coin)  and  chalet  a  delight  is  tt ,  alo 
To  read  .and  roeditateand  write, 
by  r>one  offended  and  off  end  ivy  fa 

(CHARLES  COTTON  1630-87) 
E  X    L1BRIS 

ENE,  GI\EENE  DWEN  ANDREWS 


Sunset  in  Donegal' 


IT  WAS  Sunday  evening.  The  roads  were  full 
of  people,— blue-suited  men  in  caps  talking 
at  the  lane-ends,  groups  of  boys  wandering 
aimlessly  and  throwing  stones  at  the  rocks, 
girls  on  bicycles  returning  from  church,  their 
perfect  skins  and  raven  hair  intensified  in  color 
by  the  black  of  their  neat  coats  and  skirts;  and 
the  harsh  clack  of  Gaelic  gutturals  followed 
them  out  of  sight  along  the  winding  roads.  The 
people  along  the  northern  sea  of  Donegal  were 
mostly  dark,  a  fine,  handsome  people  de- 
scended from  some  pre-Celtic  race,  perhaps 
from  the  legendary  Formorians,  the  sea-raiders 
whose  stronghold  was  on  Tory  Island,  there  to 
the  north  in  the  fading  blue  of  the  sea.  Yet 
tnat  morning  I  had  spent  in  the  planted  county 
of  Derry,  among  Scotch  voices  and  Scotch  and 
English  faces,  half  Europe  away  from  these 
slim  arrogant  Mediterranean  folk  of  Donegal. 
People  were  everywhere;  yet  where  did  tlioy 
spring  from?  Villages  were  miles  apart.  To  my 
nght  was  the  sea,  dulling  to  gray  beyond  the 
green  and  brown  of  the  low  hills  that  stretched 
nut,  into  the  water;  and  alternating  with  the 
hills  were  the  misty  gray  arms  of  the  sea 
thrust  far  into  the  land,  cold  loughs  around 
the  edge  of  which  sounded  the  mournful  cry  of 
the  curlew  as  he  rose  and  beat  on  long  wings 
over  the  green  pastures  toward  the  brown  of 
the  inland  hills.  To  my  left  were  the  farms, 
two-roomed  houses  whitewashed  and  thatched, 
scattered  sparsely  over  the  flatter  land  between 
the  barren  mountains  and  the  shore,  each  with 


the  sea  over  which  gleamed  the  f 
from  Tory  Island.  On  -the  land1 
the  road  a  stretch  of  bogland  had  t 
of  its  turf,  drained  and  half  reclai 
ture,  a  barren  sludge  of  tussocl 
purple  heather;  and  there,  exp 
digging,  was  the  ruin  of  an  ancii 
surrounded  by  a  small  stone  cir 
seaward  side  the  land  fell  away  i 
small  bluffs  to  the  edge  of  a  landl 
on  the  far  side  of  which  was  a  hi 
sand  gleaming  white  in  the  fadii 
the  glazed  surface  of  the  lough 
swans  were  feeding,  the  snowy 
and  the  dingy  gray  full-grown  cy 
ing  their  long  necks  deep  into  th 
withdrawing  them  with  slow  sei 
coiling.  Farther  out,  a  shag  wa, 
black  snaky  figure  low  to  the  watei 
a  graceful  plunge  and  reappearir 
as  scarcely  to  ripple  its  surface  ] 
the  shore  on  their  floating  ne 
shags  sat  waiting  for  their  dinr-.  >s 
and  white  figures  sitting  bolt  fV 
side  with  their  wi/igs  spread  de- 
Slowly  the  light  faded,  and  J  hil 
and  were  lost  in  the  grayne  Jl  tn< 
the  green  of  the  fields  m 
shadow.  Only  the  water 
gleamed  silver,  and  from 
of  the  waders  rose  and  .«-  ° 
whistle  of  unseen  wings  •.  a  crying 
tive  voices. 


. 
he 


A  JOURNEY   IN 
IRELAND 


A     JOURNEY     IN 
IRELAND 


BY 
WILFRID    EWART 

CAPTAIN,  LATE  SPECIAL  RESERVE,  SCOTS  GUARDS 
AUTHOR  OF  "WAY  OF  REVELATION" 

WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION 

BY 
MAJOR,    THE   EARL    WINTERTON,    M.P. 

UNDER- SECRETARY  OF  STATE  FOR  INDIA 


D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 

NEW   YORK         :         :         :        MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,    1922,    BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


FOREWORD 

ON  April  18th,  1921,  I  went  to  Ireland,  re- 
turning to  England  on  May  10th. 

The  sketches  and  conversations  embodied 
in  the  following  chapters  are  the  result  of  a 
journey  undertaken  with  the  single  object  of 
studying  the  state  of  the  country  and  the  state 
of  feeling  in  the  country,  as  to  which  news- 
papers contradicted  each  other  and  propa- 
ganda and  partisanship  persistently  vied.  How 
far  this  could  be  done  in  so  short  a  space  of 
time  the  reader  may  judge  for  himself.  I  can 
only  add  that  I  made  every  endeavour  to  meet 
and  to  talk  with  persons  of  all  shades  of 
opinion  and  of  all  classes,  hoping  that  there- 
from would  emerge  a  just  picture  of  Ireland 
in  the  extraordinary  phase — unique,  one  might 
suppose,  in  the  history  of  national  movements 
— which  ended  with  the  truce  of  July,  1921. 

Where  repetition  is  noticed  or  where  one 


2O57955 


FOREWORD 

point  of  view  or  another  seems  to  gain  the 
upper  hand,  that  fact  must  be  accepted  as  part 
of  the  individual  experience.  For  my  part  I 
offer  no  conclusions,  nor  deliberately  sought 
any.  No  incident  of  any  interest  or  signifi- 
cance has  been  suppressed.  Conversations 
were  taken  down,  in  some  cases  literally  as 
they  were  spoken,  in  others  salient  features 
or  the  sense  of  them  were  noted  immediately 
afterwards. 

Acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  Editors  of 
The  Times,  the  Westminster  Gazette,  and  the 
Sunday  Times  for  permission  to  reproduce 
certain  portions  of  the  book  which  appeared 
in  their  columns. 

Thanks  are  also  due  to  the  Editor  of  the 
Freeman's  Journal,  and  to  Mr.  J.  J.  Sullivan, 
of  Cork  city,  for  their  assistance  in  various 
ways;  very  especially  to  Mr.  F.  W.  Ryan,  of 
Dublin,  who  read  the  proofs  and  gave  me  the 
benefit  of  his  knowledge  and  advice. 

WILFRID  EWART. 

July  3rd,  1921. 


INTRODUCTION 

I  BELIEVE  that  Mr.  Ewart's  first  literary  work 
was  published  in  a  weekly  journal,  of  which  I 
Was  the  Editor.  It  was  therefore  with  much 
pleasure  that  I  set  myself  the  task  of  reading 
the  proof  of  his  latest  book.  The  impression 
left  on  my  mind  by  this  book  is  that  it  repre- 
sents an  honest  attempt  to  record,  without 
prejudice,  the  extraordinary  conflict  of  views 
and  of  right  in  present-day  Ireland.  Conflict 
of  views  there  has  always  been,  more  furiously 
combatant  in  Ireland  than  almost  anywhere 
else  in  the  British  Empire.  Since  1914,  at  any 
rate,  there  have  been  questionings,  in  any  im- 
partial person's  mind,  as  to  the  exact  moral 
rights  of  the  different  parties  to  the  quarrel. 
One  can  hate  and  detest,  as  I  do,  the  cowardly, 
secretive  midnight  assassinations  and  outrage, 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 

often  demoniac  in  its  callous  fury,  that  not 
only  was  part  of  the  Sinn  Fein  campaign  when 
at  its  height,  but  worse,  as  history  shows,  is 
an  ingrained  tradition  in  certain  districts  and 
types  of  character  in  Southern  Ireland ;  whilst, 
at  the  same  time,  disliking  intensely  certain 
acts  of  the  British  Government  in  Ireland 
since  1914.  I  will  not,  however,  pursue  this 
subject,  as  I  am  anxious  to  avoid,  as  Mr. 
Ewart  has  done,  the  ordinary  cliches  in  writ- 
ing about  Ireland:  "England  never  will  un- 
derstand Ireland";  "There  are  two  nations  in 
Ireland";  "The  Irish  are  great  gentlemen," 
etc. — statements  so  true,  yet  so  banal,  and  so 
unsatisfying. 

The  problem  of  the  inter-relationship  of 
England  and  Ireland  for  the  last  four  years 
has  been  even  more  complicated  than  it  natu- 
rally is,  by  external  and  world  conditions. 
As  everyone  knows,  the  Allied  statesmen  of 
1918  and  1919  ran  two  horses  and  refused, 
in  racing  parlance,  to  declare  to  win  with 
either.  Those  horses  were  "Internationalism" 
as  represented  by  the  League  of  Nations,  and 


INTRODUCTION 

"Little  Nationalism"  as  represented  by  self- 
determination.  Both  horses  have  had  a  rare 
gallop  in  Ireland.  "Internationalism"  de- 
manded that  the  British  Government  should 
justify  or  attempt  to  justify  before  the  world 
its  action  and  attitude  in  what  is  really  a 
domestic  quarrel.  "Little  Nationalism"  de- 
manded that  two  states  should  be  set  up  in 
an  island,  which  judged  by  every  standard 
except  that  of  the  Balkans,  is  barely  large 
enough  for  one.  The  resultant  progeny,  to 
change  the  metaphor,  would  have  been  of  a 
character  comic  in  the  extreme,  if  Irish  per- 
versity had  not  made  it  so  grim  a  tragedy  of 
lost  lives  and  ruined  homes. 

A  perusal  of  Mr.  Ewart's  book  strengthens 
the  conviction  that  the  Irish  Agreement,  at 
least,  offers  a  chance  of  conditions  a  shade 
less  intolerable  than  those  that  prevailed  be- 
fore it  was  reached;  because,  whilst  the 
glimpse  of  Ireland  which  the  book  gives  is 
only  a  fleeting  one,  even  a  stay  of  forty-eight 
hours  in  most  parts  of  Ireland  in  the  spring 
and  early  summer  of  1921  were  sufficient  to 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

satisfy  any  man  or  woman  with  two  eyes  that 
its  condition  was  a  disgrace  to  civilisation, 
and  an  outrage  upon  humanity. 

WlNTERTON. 

House  of  Commons,   S.W.I. 
March  3rd,  1922. 


CONTENTS 

MM 

FOREWORD        ......       v 

INTRODUCTION         .        .       *       .       .      vii 

CHAPTER 

I.  LIFE  IN  DUBLIN      .        .        5        .        .        1 

II.  POLITICS  IN  DUBLIN       .       «       .        .      27 

III.  LIFE  IN  CORK         .       ...       •        .38 

IV.  TALKS  WITH  SINN  FEIN        ...      52 
V.  TALKS  WITH  SOUTHERN  UNIONISTS      .      69 

VI.    LIFE  IN  MALLOW    .        .        .        ...      83 

VII.    SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS     .      98 

VIII.      KlLMALLOCK  TO  LlMERICK        .  .  .110 

IX.    TALKS  IN  LIMERICK        ....    126 

X.    GLIMPSE  INTO  AN  UNDERWORLD     .        .    152 

XL    TALKS  IN  THE  MIDLANDS       .       .        .    166 

XII.    THE  TULLAMORE  ROAD  .        .       .        .186 

ad 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIII.  THE  ROAD  TO  ULSTER      ....    197 

XIV.  THE  GATES  OF  ULSTER  .        .        .        .213 
XV.    BELFAST 224 

APPENDIX        .        .       .        .        .        .255 

AFTER-NOTE  -  259 


A  JOURNEY  IN  IRELAND 

CHAPTER   I 
LIFE   IN   DUBLIN 

\  MIDDLE-AGED  spinster  lady,  eating  a 
>L\-  fish-course,  laid  down  her  fork  sharply. 

"That's  a  bomb !" 

Everybody  else  in  the  dining-room  stopped 
eating  for  a  moment.  "Yes,  that's  a  bomb!" 
they  agreed — and  went  on  with  their  talk  and 
their  food. 

A  hollow  "bang"  like  the  bursting  of  a  mo- 
tor-car tyre  had  broken  the  subdued  murmur 
of  the  evening  streets.  And  in  any  other  city 
of  the  civilised  world  that  sound  would  have 
been  put  down  to  a  motor-car  tyre  bursting. 
But  this  city  was  Dublin  and  the  hour  the 
normal  one  for  such  occurrences. 

Wherefore,  the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  the 
1 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

hotel  went  on  with  their  dinner.  No  one  took 
much  interest  in  the  matter — no  one  except  the 
traveller  who  had  arrived  at  Westland  Row 
just  half  an  hour  earlier.  To  him  it  conveyed 
two  facts — that  the  incident  really  was  a  nor- 
mal one  in  the  city's  life  and  that  the  bomb,  by 
reason  of  the  hollowness  of  its  explosion,  was 
not  heavily  charged  but  was  probably  a  casing 
detonated. 

And,  hastily  finishing  his  dinner,  the  new 
arrival  went  out.  He  followed  the  direction 
from  which,  two  or  three  streets  away,  the 
sound  had  come.  He  was  still  expectant  of 
commotion.  At  the  corner  of  the  street  two 
soldiers  stood  laughing  with  a  girl.  Home- 
goers,  a  few,  were  passing  along  Dawson 
Street.  A  tram  clanked  past.  Groups  of  sol- 
diers, young  men  and  young  women,  were 
standing  about  the  north  side  of  Stephen's 
Green,  exchanging  leisured  pleasantries.  A 
stranger  in  a  very  strange  city  does  not  like  to 
ask  questions,  and  only  once  was  any  casual 
allusion  heard  to  a  bomb  bursting  at  the  heart 
of  it. 

2 


LIFE    IN   DUBLIN 

"At  the  corner  of  Grafton  Street  and  Duke 
Street,  I  think.  ...  A  man  and  a  girl." 

Grafton  Street  was  full  of  people  —  men, 
girls,  soldiers.  Barrel-organs  were  grinding 
out  "It's  a  long,  long  trail"  and  other  old  tunes 
of  the  war,  and  new  ragtime  ones.  Newsboys 
were  shouting  "Another  Dublin  Ambush !"  and 
(in  an  undertone)  "Up  the  rebels!"  Duke 
Street  is  half  way  down  on  the  right-hand  side. 
At  the  corner  one  noticed  the  cracked  plate- 
glass  window  of  a  shop  and  the  usual  groups 
talking.  That  was  all. 

When  night  did  finally  close  down  and  as 
curfew  hour  approached,  the  tide  of  the  peo- 
ple set  hurrying  over  O'Connell  Bridge  to- 
wards the  tram  junction  at  the  Nelson  Pillar. 
The  street  lamps  were  lit  and  there  were  vague, 
shadowy  crowds  through  which  one  had  to 
press  one's  way.  Black  motor-cars  containing 
mysterious-looking  men  rushed  out  of  College 
Green  at  breakneck  speed  like  bats  or  night- 
insects. 

Half  an  hour  later — silence.  I  looked  out  of 
a  window  high  up  and  saw  spires,  chimneys, 
3 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

roof -tops  bathed  in  moonlight,  and  heard  one 
sound — a  rifle-shot. 

Next  morning,  the  nineteenth  of  April,  that 
first  impression  multiplied. 

Turning  into  Nassau  Street  out  of  Kildare 
Street  I  looked  down  the  exceptionally  long 
barrel  of  a  revolver,  the  owner  of  which  was  a 
young  gentleman  in  a  dark  green  uniform,  one 
of  a  number  sitting  on  a  motor-lorry,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  his  finger — visibly — on  the  trigger. 
The  lorry  rattled  on.  A  woman  stopped  and 
glanced  in  at  a  shop-window. 

At  the  corner  of  Suffolk  Street — a  crowd. 
The  faces  of  the  men  and  women  in  the  crowd 
— one  sought  an  explanation  here — wore  a 
faintly-cynical,  faintly-amused  expression. 

"Hullo!    What's  up?" 

"Oh!  Bagging  somebody  else's  piano  for 
their  own  use,  I  suppose." 

And  there  they  were.  Not  a  gentleman  in 
dark  green  this  time  but  a  tall  young  man  in 
khaki  and  a  tam-o'-shanter,  brandishing  a  re- 
volver as  though  it  were  a  hair-brush,  and, 
4 


LIFE   IN   DUBLIN 

lounging  about  the  street,  which  was  otherwise 
empty,  half-a-dozen  similar  young  men,  simi- 
larly armed.  Now  there  is  probably  no  more 
respectable-looking  street  in  the  world  than 
Suffolk  Street,  Dublin.  And  yet,  sure  enough, 
here  was  a  piano  rakishly  and  mysteriously  ap- 
pearing out  of  a  window,  slowly  and  solemnly 
descending  into  the  arms  of  four  Auxiliaries 
standing  in  a  lorry  below.* 

One  other  impression  only  was  needed  to 
stultify  the  faculty  of  surprise.  That  was  on 
Grafton  Street.  Prosperity,  now,  is  the  key- 
note of  Grafton  Street,  prosperity  especially 
on  a  hot  April  afternoon  when  everybody  is 
out  shopping  or  amusing  themselves,  and 
motor-cars  and  cars  and  pony-carts  line  the 
curbs.  One  does  not  expect  to  see  charging 
up  such  a  thoroughfare,  with  no  more  warn- 
ing than  his  own  clatter,  an  immense  lorry 
caged  in  with  wire-netting  and  bristling  with 
rifles  balanced  at  the  "ready,"  by  a  score  of 

*  The  explanation  of  the  affair  is  that  certain  Auxiliaries 
were  removing  a  piano  which  they  had  hired  from  a  Suffolk 
Street  firm,  the  piano-porters  being  not  then  available.     The 
incident  is  simply  recorded  as  it  happened. 
5 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

soldiers  in  steel  helmets.    One  might  as  well 
expect  such  an  apparition  in  Bond  Street. 

"Vote  for  Sinn  Fein!  De  Valera  expects 
every  man  to  do  his  duty!" — that  and  similar 
inscriptions  thalked  on  a  blank  wall  in  Phibs- 
borough  Road  told  the  story  of  contemporary 
Ireland. 

And  that  story  was  repeated  every  evening, 
almost  every  hour  of  every  day. 

It  was  told  on  the  second  evening  when 
about  nine  o'clock  a  procession — armed  lorries 
headed  by  an  armoured  car — tore  down  West- 
morland Street,  everybody  stopping  and  star- 
ing after  them.  Next  morning  we  learnt  that 
Police-Constable  Stedman  had  been  shot  on  his 
motor-bicycle  in  Henry  Street  while  carrying 
despatches  for  the  Castle. 

It  was  told  on  the  second  morning  at 
Summerhill  Parade,  when  one  came  up  against 
a  loose  barbed-wire  fence,  a  couple  of  soldiers 
with  fixed  bayonets  lounging  idly  on  the 
further  side  of  it,  and  three  lorries  standing 
outside  a  house  in  a  side-street,  the  inhabitants 
6 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

of  which  were  peering  nervously  out  of  their 
windows.  A  "round-up"  was  going  forward 
in  the  Summerhill  district. 

On  the  third  evening  again,  I  found  myself 
at  Dartry  Road,  wandering  along  that  favour- 
ite footpath  of  the  residents,  still  more  of  the 
local  love-makers,  which  follows  the  Dodder- 
stream  along  a  little  ravine — and  recollected 
curfew.  By  the  time  I  reached  the  terminus, 
the  last  tram  had  left  for  the  city  and  the 
alternative  presented  itself  of  walking  three 
miles  in  half  an  hour  or  of  being  "curfewed" 
and  probably  arrested.  By  good  fortune,  I 
picked  up  a  jaunting  car  after  running  half 
the  distance. 

Curfew,  that  dim  relic  of  English  country 
towns,  was  the  sinister  boundary  of  every 
Irishman's  horizon  in  April,  1921.  And  cur- 
few habits  had  to  be  learnt.  Curfew-breakers 
were  summarily  dealt  with  in  police  courts. 
It  was  a  seasonable  reminder  to  see  an  elderly 
member  of  a  famous  Dublin  club  peep  out  of 
its  glass  portals  after  the  forbidden  hour,  then, 

finding  the  coast  clear,  scurry  along  the  street 
7 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

like  a  cat  to  his  nearby  home.  .  .  .  Nor  was 
it  an  easy  matter  to  obtain  a  curfew  pass  even 
for  the  best  of  reasons.  I  applied  for  one  at 
the  gates  of  the  Castle  and  was  curtly  told 
I  should  be  lucky  to  get  it  in  three  days.  Nor 
when  obtained  was  it  an  unmixed  blessing.  In 
a  newspaper-office  I  talked  to  a  young  clerk 
who  possessed  such  a  pass  and  had  been  held 
up  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  by  Black 
and  Tans. 

"Most  of  them  were  drunk,  and  they  swore 
at  me  and  asked  for  my  pass  and  swore  at  me 
again  and  loosed  off  their  rifles  and  drove 
away." 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  young  man 
was  indignant.  .  .  . 

The  abiding  impression  of  Dublin  at  this 
time  was  the  recurring  contrast  between  the 
ordinary  workaday  life  of  a  modern  city  and 
the  queer  forces  which  lurked  such  a  little  way 
beneath.  The  ruined  Post  Office  in  Sackville 
Street  was  the  only  standing  reminder  of  what 
had  gone  before,  although  the  Gresham  Hotel 

revived  painful  memories  of  Black  Sunday ;  to 
8 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

them  both  now  has  to  be  added  the  Customs- 
House.  Sitting  in  Phoenix  Park  of  an  after- 
noon, one  saw  old  men  dozing  on  seats,  nur- 
sery-maids reading  novelettes,  and  the  children 
shouting  and  playing  on  grassy  slopes  for  all 
the  world  as  if  Dublin  herself  were  a  play- 
ground. One  passed  out  of  the  gates  into  the 
North  Circular  Road  and  lorries  came  tearing 
along  at  twenty-five  miles  an  hour,  their  dark 
green  or  khaki  loads  bristling  with  rifles. 

Jammet's,  at  luncheon-time,  was  half-empty, 
yet  contrived  to  maintain  the  illusion  of  a 
segregated  and  civilised  society.  Now  a$d 
then  you  made  contact  with  Dublin's  precious 
but  distinguished  intellectual  and  artistic  world 
and  found  it  revolving  around  Merrion  and 
Fitzwilliam  Squares  apparently  undisturbed. 
But  if  you  went  to  St.  John  Ervine's  "Mixed 
Marriage"  at  the  Abbey  Theatre  you  found  the 
place  half-empty.  You  might  feel  that  the 
acting  fell  below  expectations  and  indeed  the 
theme;  you  began  to  speculate  already  about 
that  other  deadly  warfare  of  the  protesting 
North. 

9 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

And  you  came  out  in  the  dusk  to  find  Dub- 
lin's warfare  staring  you  in  the  face  on  Eden 
Quay,  where,  outside  Mooney's  public-house, 
groups  of  men  and  youths  lounged  andi-spat 
and  smoked.  Was  it  not  from  this  corner  that 
bombs  were  thrown  last  Sunday  night?  .  .  . 

On  fine  afternoons  the  white-flannelled 
students  play  cricket  on  the  grassy  lawns  of 
Trinity  College,  a  stone's  throw  from  Nassau 
Street.  And  as  you  stood,  one  of  a  group, 
watching  them  through  the  railings,  through 
an  opening  in  the  foliage,  you  could  not  fore- 
se£  that  from  here  a  fortnight  hence  revol- 
ver-shots would  be  fired,  or  that  the  daisy- 
sprinkled  bank  would  be  stained  by  a  girl's 
blood. 

The  interior  of  Dublin  Castle  presented  it- 
self as  a  hive  from  which,  as  one  passed  up- 
country,  all  subsequent  activities  sprang.  In 
and  out  of  the  great  gate,  with  its  ramshackle 
flankments  of  barbed  wire  and  sandbags,  a 
constant  procession  of  armoured  cars,  lorries, 
tenders,  and  Ford  cars  passed.  The  Ford  cars 
themselves  and  their  occupants — two  or  four 
10 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

commonplace-looking  individuals  in  soft  felt 
hats  and  macintoshes — attached  to  themselves, 
after  a  while,  a  peculiar  significance.  In  the 
wide  courtyard,  scene  of  so  many  mysterious 
happenings — curtain-raisers  to  greater  dramas 
or  to  the  Hereafter — rows  of  the  now  familiar 
lorries  and  cars  stood  grilling  in  the  sunshine, 
their  green  or  khaki  crews  smoking  cigarettes, 
joking,  fingering  their  revolver-holsters.  In 
their  midst,  or  sitting  on  one  of  the  lorries,  a 
row  of  nondescript-looking  civilians — spitting. 

The  whitewashed  guard-room  on  the  right 
of  the  gate  where  you  signed  your  name — that 
had  its  associations.  One  day,  they  told  you, 
two  rebel-leaders,  sitting  amicably  with  their 
guards  by  the  fire,  sprang  for  the  door,  and, 
shot  or  bayoneted,  were  killed. 

Within  the  buildings,  soldiers,  staff-officers, 
and  officials  bustling  to  and  fro:  it  resembled 
a  General  Headquarters  in  the  Great  War. 
One  was  ushered  into  a  room  where  elderly, 
bearded  men  sat  scribbling  shorthand  on  pads 
balanced  on  their  knees  and  young  be-spec- 
tacled  men  scribbled  shorthand  on  pads,  as  they 
11 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

stood.  A  monotonous  voice  was  reciting,  sen- 
tence by  sentence: 

"Crown  Forces  operating  Thursday  on  the 
Kerry-Limerick  border  called  upon  three  civil- 
ians at  Knocktoosh  to  halt.  Two  of  them 
failed  to  do  so.  .  .  ." 

"A  party  of  eight  R.I.C.  police  from  Castle- 
bar,  Co.  Mayo,  travelling  in  a  motor-car,  were 
ambushed  at  6.30  a.  m.  .  .  ." 

The  monotonous  voice  was  punctured  by  the 
still  more  monotonous  "tap-tap-tap"  of  ^  type- 
writer in. an  adjoining  room. 

A  short,  clean-shaven  man  wearing  glasses 
presented  himself  and  led  the  way  out  to  the 
inner  courtyard  of  the  Castle.  He  was  Mr. 
Basil  Clarke,  the  mouthpiece  of  the  Irish  Gov- 
ernment through  the  sieve  of  whose  intelligence 
all  Irish  news  (and  all  propaganda)  passed. 
We  paced  up  and  down  the  colonnade  while 
I  explained  my  project. 

Mr.  de  Valera's  Proclamation  to  the  Irish 
people  had  appeared  that  morning.  The  Castle 
representative  drew  attention  to  two  points 
in  it: 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

( 1 )  The  appeal  to  the  Electorate  to  vote  on 
the  issue  of  a  Republic.     (This  was  answered 
within  a  month  by  the  unopposed  return  of 
Sinn  Fein  candidates  for  the  Southern  Parlia- 
ment.) 

(2)  That  passage  in  the  Proclamation  which 
ran: 

"The  policy  of  Sinn  Fein  .  .  .  stands  for  the  right 
of  the  people  of  this  Nation  to  determine  freely  for 
themselves  how  they  shall  be  governed,  and  for  the 
right  of  every  citizen  to  an  equal  voice  in  the  deter- 
mination ;  it  stands  for  civil  and  religious  equality,  and 
for  the  full  proportional  representation  and  all  possible 
safeguarding  of  minorities.  .  .  ." 

This  was  interpreted  as  a  direct  reference 
to  Ulster's  claims. 

In  reply  to  an  inquiry  regarding  the  likely 
result  of  negotiations  then  believed  to  be  tak- 
ing place,  my  candid  informant  said : 

"You  may  take  it  that  negotiations — indi- 
rect, of  course — have  gone  on  continuously 
since  last  June  (1920),  but  it  has  always 
seemed  as  though  an  extremist  wing  of  Sinn 
Fein  intended  to  wreck  them.  Whenever  they 
seemed  like  succeeding,  some  particularly  vio- 

13 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

lent  outrage  has  taken  place  which  caused  the 
Government  to  stiffen  their  backs  for  fear  of 
seeming  to  give  way  to  murder." 

"Couldn't  a  truce  have  been  fixed  up  but  for 
Lloyd  George's  stipulation  about  the  giving  up 
of  arms?" 

"Perhaps.  The  question  of  an  amnesty  as 
regards  Collins,  Mulcahy,  and  the  two  others 
remains  the  difficulty,  though." 

I  inquired  whether  Russian  money  was  be- 
lieved to  be  at  the  back  of  the  Sinn  Fein  move- 
ment as  alleged  by  the  Duke  of  Northumber- 
land and  Lord  Carson. 

"It  cannot  be  stated  definitely.  Bolshevist 
money  may  reach  Sinn  Fein  through  the  Irish 
Labour  Party  or  through  Sinn  Fein  agents  who 
are  in  touch  with  Moscow.  The  alliance  be- 
tween Sinn  Fein  and  Labour  is  an  affaire  de 
convenance  because  Labour  holds  Sinn  Fein's 
strongest  weapon — the  transport  strike.  They 
remain  nevertheless  separate  and  distinct 
movements." 

At  the  conclusion  of  our  conversation  I  was 
informed  that  if  I  wished  to  proceed  with  my 

14 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

journey  an  official  pass  would  be  granted  (if 
desired),  and  that  the  Castle  would  answer  for 
me  if  arrested  by  Crown  Forces. 

I  thereupon  repaired  to  the  nearest  photog- 
rapher's and,  armed  with  his  frightful  dis- 
closures, made  my  way  to  G.H.Q.,  Parkgate. 
Here  a  benevolent  major  went  through  the 
passport  process  so  familiar  to  visitors  at  Lake 
Buildings,  St.  James's  Park,  recording  one's 
every  physical  feature  with  embarrassing  ac- 
curacy. He  then,  with  a  few  cautionary  words, 
handed  me  my  pass,  together  with  his  blessing. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  the  "Irregular 
Forces"  (in  an  irregular  capacity!)  came  about 
in  an  untidy  little  restaurant  near  College 
Green.  In  the  street  a  barrel-organ  was  grind- 
ing out  its  inevitable  tale  of  ragtime,  but  above 
that  turgid  repertoire  could  be  heard  sounds 
of  singing,  laughter,  and  dancing  feet  in 
which  every  now  and  then  a  feminine  voice 
predominated. 

In  answer  to  my  question  the  waiter  winked. 

"They  have  a  lot  of  drink  taken,"  he  re- 
15 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

marked,  merely  adding  that  they  were  "some 
of  the  boys." 

I  thereupon  caught  a  glimpse  through  the 
half-open  door  of  a  young  person  in  civilian 
clothes  dancing  by  himself  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  brandishing  a  bottle. 

Presently  half-a-dozen  young  men  and  maid- 
ens came  tumbling  out  of  the  room,  laughing 
and  swearing  pleasantly.  One  was  rather 
drunk. 

Meanwhile  two  Auxiliaries  in  uniform  sat 
at  a  table  by  the  window,  puffing  at  cigarettes, 
gazing  boredly  down  into  the  street.  .  .  . 

There  was  civility  and  to  spare  in  the  shops, 
but  when  you  walked  about  the  triangular  area 
between  Talbot  Street,  Amiens  Street  and  Rail- 
way Street,  you  encountered  that  furtive,  half- 
cowed  and  half -hostile  attitude  of  the  people 
which  subsequently  dogged  your  footsteps 
through  Ireland.  There  are  slums  as  bad  no 
doubt  in  Bethnal  Green,  but  by  morning  light 
the  people  of  this  oldest  quarter  of  Dublin  wear 
a  shamed  look  as  their  houses  do,  as  the  grey, 
peeling  walls  and  dirty  striped  mattresses 
16 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

hanging  out  of  window  do,  as  those  wretched 
creatures  in  shreds  of  cloth  or  shawls,  down- 
at-heel  slippers,  and  frowsy  hair,  those  hordes 
of  filthy  children  happy  in  their  ignorance  and 
their  super-abundant  humour  do.  Only  once 
have  I  seen  a  place  more  nakedly  expressive 
of  human  depravity,  and  that  not  in  London 
or  Paris  but  in  North  Dublin  among  the  refuse 
heaps  near  the  Great  Northern  railway  line. 
Here  things  like  wasps  crawl  on  mountains  of 
rubbish,  their  creeping  movements  alone  dis- 
tinguishing them  from  the  old  tins,  the  scraps 
of  paper  and  the  rags.  They  are  old  men, 
women,  girls,  children — Dublin's  ghouls. 

Tyrone  Street  has  contributed  its  quota  to 
the  Irish  Republican  Army,  no  doubt;  but 
Tyrone  Street  has  changed  its  name.  During 
the  war  it  contributed  its  quota  to  the  British 
Army  (for  no  very  patriotic  reason),  but  in 
the  Irish  regiments  a  "Tyrone  Street  man" 
was  a  particular  kind  of  man.  He  was  known 
of  all  recruiting  sergeants,  rejected  if  possible, 
marked.  Experienced  N.C.O.'s  recognised  a 
"Tyrone  Street  man"  as  much  by  his  under- 

17 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

sized  physique  as  by  certain  Irishisms  he  used, 
which  are  apparently  copyright  in  Tyrone 
Street.  But — Tyrone  Street  is  no  more ! 

My  stay  in  Dublin  was  prolonged  by  un- 
successful endeavours  to  get  into  touch  with 
the  Sinn  Fein  Executive,  from  whom  I  hoped 
to  obtain  some  assurance  before  starting  up- 
country.  The  value  of  an  introduction  from 
London  to  the  Republican  Minister  of  Publicity 
had  been  somewhat  reduced  when  this  gentle- 
man was  found  to  be  inhabiting  the  Internment 
Camp  at  the  Curragh. 

Things  began  to  look  more  promising,  how- 
ever, when  I  was  directed  (from  an  influential 
source)  to  an  individual  described  as  being  on 
the  "outer  inner  ring"  of  the  movement.  This 
gentleman  (who,  by  the  way,  was  interned  a 
week  or  two  later)  I  found  occupying  a  villa 
on  the  western  outskirts  of  the  capital.  I  was 
shown  into  a  drawing-room,  agreeably  schemed 
in  mahogany  and  dull  red,  surrounded  by 
shelves  heavily  book-laden.  A  sharp-eyed, 
wizened-looking  little  man  wearing  trouser- 

18 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

clips  presently  appeared,  announcing  that  he 
was  in  a  hurry  to  attend  a  meeting  in  the  city. 
I  explained  my  desires  and  he  informed  me 
that  my  request  would  be  placed  before  the 
meeting.  The  next  time  I  was  to  catch  sight 
of  the  gentleman  was  some  months  later  in 
Whitehall,  when  he  was  attending  upon  his 
chief  at  a  "conversation"  with  the  Prime 
Minister. 

I  subsequently  received  a  telephone  message 
to  the  effect  that  a  messenger  would  meet  me 
at  Kingsbridge  a  few  minutes  before  the  de- 
parture of  the  afternoon  train  to  Cork.  No 
messenger  appeared,  however.  I  again  post- 
poned my  departure. 

Next  morning  I  applied  in  another  quarter. 
This  effort,  too,  was  to  prove  fruitless,  but 
I  became  hereby  acquainted  with  the  strange 
story  of  Mr.  H.  This  story  is  reproduced  with 
reserve  as  to  its  implications;  its  interest  lies 
in  the  baleful  but  revealing  light  which  it  seems 
to  shed  upon  the  Ireland  of  that  day. 

On  a  certain  afternoon  of  September,  1920, 
a  number  of  journalists  were  summoned  to  a 

19 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

house  in  Dublin  where,  it  was  intimated,  some- 
thing interesting  was  about  to  happen.  My 
informant  was  one  of  them ;  the  party  also  in- 
cluded representatives  of  well-known  English, 
American,  Italian,  and  French  newspapers.  On 
arrival  they  found  the  Republican  Vice-Presi- 
dent,  Mr.  Arthur  Griffith,  who,  after  some 
general  conversation,  announced  that  he  ex- 
pected a  visitor  and  that  this  visitor  had  an 
important  proposition  to  develop.  The  prop- 
osition was  none  other  than  the  betrayal  of 
the  chief  of  the  English  Secret  Service  to  Sinn 
Fein. 

"He  has  asked  me,"  Mr.  Griffith  went  on, 
"to  let  him  meet  leaders  of  the  movement, 
especially  on  the  military  side,  and  he  is  com- 
ing here  this  evening  imagining  that  he  is  to 
meet  some  inner  council  of  the  Sinn  Fein  move- 
ment. I  believe  he  is  only  one  of  a  number  of 
men  acting  as  agents  provocateurs  throughout 
the  country.  I  will  let  him  tell  you  his  own 
story,  but  I  would  ask  the  foreign  gentlemen 
present  not  to  speak  much,  lest  the  man's  sus- 
picions be  aroused." 

20 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

A  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  expected  visitor 
— a  fair-haired,  heavy-jowled  man  of  about 
50 — entered.  Though  warmly  welcomed  he 
appeared  slightly  nervous  and,  as  my  inform- 
ant remarked,  "modestly  lowered  his  eyes."  At 
Mr.  ^iffith's  request  he  proceeded  to  tell  his 
story. 

He  was  an  Englishman,  he  announced,  but 
hated  England  and  detested  the  English  Gov- 
ernment so  much  that  when  rumours  of  con- 
scription arose,  he  fled  to  Ireland. 

"You  know,"  he  remarked,  "I  would  sooner 
be  shot  dead  than  fight  for  England." 

He  preferred  attending  race-meetings  in 
Ireland.  "For,"  said  he,  "I'm  a  bit  of  a  sports- 
man." And  he  told  of  his  imprisonment  in  the 
cause  of  Irish  freedom.  Up  in  Derry  he  had 
taken  part  in  a  raid  for  arms  by  Sinn  Fein 
Volunteers,  and  had  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
captured  and  sentenced  to  five  years'  penal 
servitude. 

"How  did  you  escape  from  Maryboro'?" 
somebody  inquired. 

"H.  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  chair 

21 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

and  spoke  glibly  for  five  minutes  in  his  cosmo- 
politan accent,"  was  my  informant's  descrip- 
tion. It  happened  in  this  way.  H/s  father 
was  a  prominent  Freemason;  he  had  also  held 
an  important  position  on  King  Edward's  yacht. 
"In  addition,"  H.  added,  "I  myself  was  jpecial 
shorthand  writer  to  the  Duke  of  Connaught  in 
Canada.  So  I  had  influential  connections  and 
wrote  to  some  friends  in  London  who  got  me 
released  last  year." 

The  tale  proceeded.  Looking  for  work  on 
his  return  to  London,  H.  was  advised  to  seek 
out  a  certain  Captain  T.  in  the  Charing  Cross 
Road.  This  gentleman  offered  him  an  appoint- 
ment in  the  English  Secret  Service  at  30j.  a 
day  with  special  bonuses  for  information  ob- 
tained. Meetings  were  arranged  in  Dublin — 
one  on  Kingston  Pier,  another  at  the  foot  of 
the  Wellington  Monument  in  Phoenix  Park. 
Recognition  on  these  occasions  was  by  signs 
only,  H.  having  been  cautioned  to  have  no  re- 
lationship of  any  kind  with  Dublin  Castle  or 
the  Irish  Detective  Service.  Captain  T.,  how- 
ever, at  some  time  produced  a  photograph  of 
22 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

Michael  Collins,  the  Republican  Minister  of 
Finance. 

At  this  point  of  the  narrative,  one  of  the 
supposed  "inner  ring"  inquired  what  might  be 
done  in  the  matter. 

The  answer  was  that  a  meeting  might  be 
arranged  with  Captain  T.  on  the  West  Pier  at 
Dun  Laoghaire.  "It  is  a  very  lonely  spot  dur- 
ing most  hours  of  the  day."  He  would  advise 
Sinn  Fein  of  the  date  and  hour,  and  they  could 
then  "get"  this  alleged  Chief  of  the  English 
Secret  Service. 

"For  T.,"  the  spy  was  at  pains  to  add,  "is 
the  man  responsible  for  all  the  dirty  work  in 
Ireland  and  holds  the  strings  of  all  the  Secret 
Service  operating  against  the  Sinn  Fein  move- 
ment." 

A  moment's  silence  followed  these  sinister 
remarks. 

Other  names  were  mentioned.  Lord  Carson 
was  one  of  them.  Information  could  be  sup- 
plied as  to  his  movements,  and  so  it  could  as 
to  the  movements  of  Sir  Hamar  Greenwood. 
Ulster  Arsenals  could  be  unmasked  in  Derry. 

23 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

There  was  a  proposition  relating  to  a  house 
near  Tramore  which  was  shortly  to  be  raided 
by  the  military  for  arms.  Only  three  lorriesful 
were  to  be  sent — why  not  a  greater  force  of 
Volunteers  to  "disarm"  the  soldiers? 

Horror  with  difficulty  disguised  itself  in  the 
faces  of  the  listeners  as  these  cold-blooded  pro- 
posals came  out  one  by  one. 

The  real  purpose  of  the  alleged  agent  pro- 
vocateur revealed  itself  at  last.  Would  it  not 
prevent  the  English  Secret  Service  chiefs  be- 
coming suspicious  of  him  if  he  were  furnished 
with  a  certain  amount  of  "genuine  informa- 
tion": if  he  could  report,  for  instance,  that 
Mike  Collins  was  in  a  certain  place  on  Wednes- 
day and  hold  back  his  report  until  Friday. 
He  would  gain  the  support  of  his  superiors, 
wouldn't  he,  and  be  able  further  to  assist  the 
Sinn  Fein  movement? 

"And  of  course,"  he  added,  "  no  harm  would 
come  to  ould  Mick!" 

"He  was  a  very  stupid  man,"  was  my  infor- 
mant's comment. 

Mr.  Griffith  rose. 

24 


LIFE    IN    DUBLIN 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  have  heard 
this  man's  proposal  and  can  judge  for  your- 
selves. Mr.  H.  has  told  you  one  version  of  his 
career — I  will  tell  you  another." 

Picture  the  scene:  the  Republican  leader 
quiet  and  nonchalant,  impenetrable  behind  his 
glasses;  the  circle  of  journalists — the  "inner 
Council  of  Sinn  Fein" — shocked,  almost  pain- 
fully expectant  of  what  was  coming;  the  cen- 
tral figure,  startled,  pale,  suddenly  and  terribly 
frightened. 

Mr.  Griffith  proceeded  to  relate  a  history 
of  crime.  Forgery  and  fraud,  embezzlement, 
petty  larceny,  two  sentences  of  seven  years' 
penal  servitude  each,  a  sentence  of  five  years' 
penal  servitude  passed  on  December  8th,  1918, 
at  Belfast  Assizes  for  a  series  of  frauds.  Such 
was  H.'s  record.  During  the  recital  the 
wretch's  mouth  twitched  and  his  hands  shook. 
Mr.  Griffith  ended  the  long  narration  with 
these  words: 

"You  are  a  scoundrel,  H.,  but  the  people  who 
employ  you  are  greater  scoundrels.  A  boat 
will  leave  Dublin  to-night  at  nine  o'clock.  My 
25 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

advice  to  you  is — catch  that  boat  and  never 
return  to  Ireland.  You  may  use  your  peculiar 
talents  as  you  like  in  your  own  country.  I  have 
nothing  more  to  say." 

Crushed  and  frightened,  the  man  protested 
in  a  piteous  tone  that  he  had  never  done  any- 
thing against  Sinn  Fein.  He  could  not  leave 
Dublin  that  night. 

The  Sinn  Fein  Vice-President  indicated  the 
door  and  the  spy  walked  quickly  from  the 
room.  .  .  . 

He  left  for  England  by  the  night-mail. 


CHAPTER  II 
POLITICS    IN    DUBLIN 

IN  a  red-brick  Georgian  house  on  Merrion 
Square,  which  compares  with  the  best  in 
Bath  or  Brighton,  and  to  which  my  prolonged 
stay  in  Dublin  presently  led  me,  "JE."  presides 
like  the  reincarnation  of  an  ancient  Irish  bard. 
And  George  Russell  stands  for  a  large  section 
of  Ireland,  not  alone  by  the  essentially  Irish 
quality  of  his  mind  but  by  reason  of  his  signifi- 
cant presence,  the  stature  of  the  man,  the  mas- 
sive head  and  nut-brown  beard.  Even  the 
room  in  which  he  receives  you  is  atmospheric 
and  individual — calm,  sombre-tinted,  mellow. 

"All  governments  are  rotten — though  their 
individual  members  may  be  honest  men — be- 
cause they  act  not  upon  what  is  right  but  in 
obedience  to  forces  more  powerful  than  them- 
selves. .  .  .  We  Irish  have  no  hatred  of  the 
27 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

English;  our  hatred  is  of  the  English  Govern- 
ment which  treats  Ireland,  and  has  so  treated 
her  through  centuries,  as  a  slave  race." 

We  sat  in  front  of  the  fire,  "JE."  wearing  a 
shamrock-green  tie.  There  was  green  in  the 
room,  too,  green  against  a  prevailing  note  of 
brown.  The  poet  spoke  forcibly — deliberately, 
yet  without  hesitation — and  with  a  remarkable 
precision  of  English. 

"It's  difficult  for  one  man  to  speak  for  a 
whole  nation.  .  .  .  We  do  want  independence. 
But  if  the  Government  would  frankly  call  a 
free  conference  and  proclaim  a  truce,  making 
at  the  same  time  a  definite  offer,  something 
might  be  done." 

"May  I  ask  what  you  call  an  'offer'?" 

"If  Ulster  would  come  into  the  Dominion 
of  Ireland  as  a  federated  State,  and  if  all  the 
rights  that  Canada  has  or  that  Australia  has 
were  granted  us,  we  might  reconsider  the  ques- 
tion of  separation." 

"And  the  Army  and  Navy — foreign  rela- 
tions?" 

"We  must  have  control  of  our  ports.    And 

28 


POLITICS    IN    DUBLIN 

why  a  British  garrison  in  a  free  country? 
Foreign  relations  must  be  our  concern  as  much 
as  the  concern  of  Canada,  Australia,  and  South 
Africa — no  more  and  no  less." 

"What  about  fiscal  autonomy?" 

"If  Ireland  wanted  to  put  a  duty  on  certain 
English  goods,  English  manufacturers  would 
no  doubt  raise  a  howl.  That  cannot  be  helped. 
We  must  be  a  Dominion  State  in  fact  as  well 
as  in  name.  Besides,  England  and  Ireland  are 
an  economic  unity  and  are  bound  to  remain  so 
for  a  long  time.  I  think  it  would  be  folly  to 
start  a  tariff  war." 

"Who  wants  the  Government  of  Ireland 
Act?"  "2£"  demanded  in  reply  to  another 
question.  "Why,  of  102  Irish  M.P.'s  not  one 
has  voted  for  it!" 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  rank  and  file  of 
the  Irish  Republican  Army  as  being  "inspired 
by  a  mystical  passion  of  nationality,"  adding 
that  "mistakes"  had  been  made  by  particular 
groups.  He  spoke  of  the  forebodings  of  that 
Sunday  evening  when,  returning  home,  he 
heard  of  the  fifteen  assassinations. 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

"That,"  he  declared,  "was  a  bad  day  for 
Ireland." 

These  exchanges  led  to  a  discussion  upon 
the  policy  and  methods  of  the  I.R.A. 

How  did  he  explain  the  motives  and  psy- 
chology of  men  who  could  kill  their  opponents 
in  cold  blood — opponents,  moreover,  who  were 
engaged  (though  at  Dublin  Castle)  on  work 
like  map-making  and  not  on  Secret  Service? 

"Personally,  I  am  not  in  favour  of  violence," 
was  the  reply.  "But  you  fought  in  the  war, 
didn't  you?  Well,  the  I.R.A.  men  consider 
themselves  to  be  fighting  for  their  country's 
integrity  and  freedom  just  as  much  as  you  did 
during  the  war  with  Germany.  As  to  the 
murders,  you  must  have  seen  Germans  shot  in 
cold  blood — prisoners,  for  instance?  Such 
things  happen  in  war  and  always  will.  People 
in  England  seem  to  forget  or  not  to  realize 
that  a  state  of  war  prevails  in  this  country." 

Our  Curfew  Parliament,  which  assembled 
nightly  before  the  hotel  fire,  was  not  so  lumi- 
nous as  the  author  of  "Imaginations  and  Rev- 
30 


POLITICS    IN    DUBLIN 

cries"  in  his  quiet  study.  But  it  expressed 
perhaps  more  truly  because  more  chaotically 
the  Dublin  of  that  day.  Here  one  received  a 
first  schooling  in  the  necessities  and  reserva- 
tions of  a  politics-ridden  country.  And  for  all 
the  affability  and  the  drawing-up  of  chairs,  one 
detected  at  first  a  certain  stricture  in  the  con- 
versation, a  readiness  on  the  part  of  everybody, 
unusual  in  England,  to  explain  his  position  and 
business,  and  way  of  life.  From  which  one 
inferred  that  a  similar  frankness  was  to  be 
expected  of  oneself.  Until  this  frankness  was 
established  indeed,  politics,  when  touched  upon, 
were  avoided  or  adroitly  dropped.  Gradually, 
however,  the  little  company  warmed  to  a  meas- 
ure of  confidence,  though  the  Irish  lawyer  kept 
his  own  counsel  and  the  American  consular 
official  contributed  little.  Definite  expressions 
of  opinion,  indeed,  evoked  unresponsive  sur- 
prise, so  that,  offering  them,  one  was  left  "in 
the  air,"  with  the  feeling  of  having  made  a 
faux  pas.  Such  reticences  one  has  associated 
with  bygone  Poland,  Austria,  or  Russia  under 

31 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

an  Imperial  Secret  Service,  savoured  with  a 
soupgon  of  William  le  Queux. 

On  the  following  evening  things  did  warm 
up.  A  middle-aged  land-agent  expressed  the 
opinion  that  in  his  part  of  the  country  a  farm- 
er's land  which  in  pre-war  times  had  been 
worth  £25  was  now  worth  <£50,  and  that  the 
real  ambition  of  the  farmers  was  not  Ireland 
a  Republic,  but  an  Ireland  in  which  a  man 
could  till  his  own  soil  and  hand  it  down  in  fee 
simple  to  his  children. 

A  young  medical  student  declared  that  the 
root  of  the  Irish  question  lay  in  the  influence 
of  the  priests  and  the  anti-English,  or  rather 
pro-Irish,  system  of  education  in  primary  and 
secondary  schools.  He  went  on  to  give  in- 
stances that  had  come  to  his  own  knowledge, 
using  a  phrase  which  has  lingered  in  the  mem- 
ory: "Ireland  suffers  from  too  much  religion 
and  too  little  Christianity." 

Different  was  the  tone  of  an  elderly  land- 
owner, descendant  of  Grattan,  who  had  fought 
the  Constitutional  fight  for  upwards  of  a  gen- 
eration and  whose  clenched  fist  was  raised  at 

32 


POLITICS    IN    DUBLIN 

the  Forces  of  the  Crown.  He  started  on 
moderate  lines,  even  telling  a  good-humoured 
anecdote  about  Mr.  Lloyd  George. 

"It  was  in  a  North  Wales  constituency  some 
years  ago.  We  met  in  a  railway-carriage  and 
got  on  to  Ireland.  The  fellow  irritated  me  so 
much  by  his  ignorance  that  at  last  I  began 
giving  him  a  bit  of  my  mind,  ending  up  with 
the  words,  'Well,  Lloyd  George,  I'm  afraid  we 
shall  have  to  settle  this  with  fists/  Instead 
of  getting  angry,  however,  he  laughed  and 
asked  me  to  luncheon.  Not  such  a  bad  chap 
after  all!" 

A  rare  character,  this  Nationalist  fire-eater, 
with  his  weather-beaten  face,  sunken  eyes  and 
picturesque  untidiness.  He  had  lived  hard  and 
ridden  hard  (and  talked  hard)  all  his  life,  but 
the  unexpected  thing  was  that  he  had  read 
hard,  too — was  an  equal  advocate  of  Machia- 
velli  and  Mr.  Balfour,  and  had  strong  though 
possibly  over  -  weighted  intellectual  powers. 
Such  types  one  still  finds  among  the  older  Irish 
landed  gentry.  .  .  .  And  he  had  his  own  pe- 
culiar solution  of  the  Irish  question. 
33 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

"Irishmen  simply  want  Ireland  to  remain 
outside  British  party  politics.  Give  us  an  Irish 
Government,  led  by  an  Irish  Prime  Minister, 
subject  to  the  prerogative  of  the  King  of  Eng- 
land— a  Republic,  if  you  like,  within  the  British 
Empire.  Control  of  foreign  affairs  we  would 
leave  with  you ;  your  Navy  could  use  our  ports, 
as  now.  We  grudge  nothing  that  you  may 
think  vital  to  the  safety  of  the  Empire — not 
even  loyalty.  But — leave  us  to  look  after  our 
own  affairs!" 

An  allusion  to  the  Government  of  Ireland 
Act  met  with  a  contemptuous  laugh. 

"Why,  it  would  be  worse  for  us  than  the 
present  regime!  Under  the  Act,  the  Viceroy 
can  veto  any  legislation  passed  by  an  Irish 
Parliament.  That  would  practically  mean  gov- 
ernment by  committee.  Who  wants  to  be  run 
by  a  handful  of  effete  Englishmen?" 

He  was  strong  on  that.  "Effete  English- 
men" was  a  favourite  expression,  and  he  ap- 
peared rather  aggressively  anxious  to  empha- 
sise national  and  racial  distinctions.  There  was 
a  scheme  for  supplying  England  with  skilled 
34 


POLITICS    IN    DUBLIN 

Irish  labour — with  agricultural  workers  and 
woodmen,  some  of  them  trained  on  his  own 
estate.  .  .  .  With  it  all  he  was  an  Imperialist. 
That  was  puzzling.  It  was  puzzling,  too,  to 
discover  that  he  had  commanded  an  Irish  bat- 
talion of  the  British  Army  during  the  war — 
exulted  in  the  fact. 

There  were,  nevertheless,  recurring  moments 
when  the  room  rang  with  the  veteran's  denun- 
ciations of  the  methods  of  the  Crown,  when  he 
shook  his  fist  and,  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
glared  round  at  his  friends. 

"They  rush  about  our  country  roads  in  their 
lorries,  firing  their  rifles,  and  frightening  our 
wives  and  daughters,  murdering.  But  I  tell 
you,  if  so  much  as  a  hair  of  the  head  of  one 
of  my  family  or  any  of  my  dependants  is 
touched—" 

Shaking  with  rage,  he  went  on  to  tell  of  how 
his  wife  and  daughter  had  been  driving  their 
motor-car  along  a  country  road  in  Galway 
when  a  lorryful  of  Black  and  Tans  had  come 
along,  had  sworn  at  them,  had  forced  them 

almost  into  the  ditch.    He  ended  thus : 
35 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

"Remember,  it's  a  vendetta !  It's  blood  for 
blood  and  life  for  life.  I  say  that  if  any  of 
mine  or  any  near  to  me  are  so  much  as  touched 
by  these  ruffians,  I'll  have  the  life  not  of  a 
policeman,  but  of  one  of  our  'great  men'  who 
'rule'  at  Dublin  Castle.  And  they  know  it — 
I've  told  them  so  to  their  faces !  I  tell  you,  the 
Irish  people  will  not  forget  this  thing  for 
generations — unto  the  third  and  fourth  gen- 
eration. .  .  .  We  were  prospering,  the  country 
was  settling  down,  and  then — this  gang  of  as- 
sassins. And  the  work  of  my  lifetime  undone." 

During  this  harangue  the  other  members  of 
the  little  circle  became  uneasy.  The  practical 
land-agent  repeatedly  murmured  his  dissent, 
and  next  morning  declared  that  he  flatly  dis- 
agreed with  these  opinions,  which  were  not 
representative  of  the  majority  of  the  Irish 
people,  adding: 

"You  mustn't  pay  too  much  attention  to  him. 
He's  like  that — he  doesn't  mean  half  he  says." 

My  own  impression,  on  the  whole,  differed. 
The  deep-set  eyes,  the  dull  light  that  smoul- 
dered in  them,  the  rugged  face  and  powerful 

36 


POLITICS    IN    DUBLIN 

jaw  with  their  suggestion  of  fanaticism,  ex- 
pressed a  resentment  that  rankled  deep  and  a 
determination  that  would  brook  no  wrong.  On 
the  whole,  this  grim  old  Nationalist  stood  for 
the  kind  of  man  who  for  better  or  worse  has 
suffered,  fought,  and  in  some  cases  died  for 
Ireland  during  later  periods  of  her  history. 


CHAPTER  III 
LIFE   IN    CORK 

fTT^HE  mail  train  to  Cork,  which  had  been  due 
•*•  to  leave  Dublin  at  7.30  a.  m.,  did  not  in 
fact  depart  till  8.15  on  the  morning  of  April 
23rd. 

Arriving  at  Kingsbridge  after  a  chilly  drive 
through  Dublin's  awakening  streets,  I  found 
several  Crown  lorries  standing  in  the  station 
yard  and  a  score  of  "men  in  green"  pacing  up 
and  down  the  platform.  A  number  of  other 
prospective  passengers  had  collected  by  the 
original  hour  of  departure,  including  several 
horsy-looking  persons  and  one  merry  party  of 
young  people  on  their  way  to  Clonmel  races. 

When  the  train  at  last  came  in  half-full  of 
passengers  from  the  Kingstown  boat,  I  made 
for  the  breakfast  car.  Here,  as  table  compan- 
ion, was  a  person  of  such  a  type  as  one  meets 
only  in  Ireland.  He  was  beefy,  red-faced,  and 
38 


LIFE    IN    CORK 

red-haired ;  he  had  a  colossal  appetite.  He  was 
the  only  Irishman  I  met  who  took  no  interest 
in  politics,  but  disclosed  instead  an  interest  in 
horses  and  horse-racing  transcending  anything 
else.  We  discussed  three-year-olds  and  Cup 
horses  of  the  year  with  a  gusto  which  was  ex- 
plained when  he  informed  me  that  before  as- 
suming the  garb  of  the  Church  of  Ireland,  he 
had  been  a  cattle  and  horse  dealer  and  had 
made  many  a  voyage  in  Glasgow  and  Liv- 
erpool cattle-boats.  Even  now  he  trained 
and  raced  his  own  horses.  Incidentally  he 
"swore."  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  breakfast  four  big  Black 
and  Tans  with  revolvers  strapped  to  their 
thighs  tramped  in,  sat  down  at  the  next  table, 
and  leant  their  rifles  against  the  backs  of  their 
chairs. 

A  prosperous-looking  country  fled  by.  The 
greenness  of  everything,  the  grazing  cattle,  the 
smug  appearance  of  the  white  cottages  and 
farmsteads  against  the  sunlit  landscape,  pro- 
tested against  the  presence  of  a  spectre  that 
stalked  through  the  counties  of  the  South. 

39 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

At  the  Curragh  a  number  of  racing-men  got 
in;  at  Maryborough  a  number  of  railwaymen. 
These  descended  at  Thurles,  with  affable  "good 
mornings." 

By  midday  we  were  at  Cork.  .  .  . 

Earlier  visitors  to  the  hotel  at  which  I  stayed 
had  spoken  of  it  as  a  favourite  resort  of  Black 
and  Tans  and  Government  "agents,"  and  had 
described  more  than  one  lively  "scene"  of 
which  they  had  been  witnesses.  I  was  sur- 
prised, therefore,  to  find  a  large  dining-room 
occupied  by  three  persons  only — two  Dublin" 
surgeons  and  an  individual  whom  I  shall' 
call  X. 

Mr.  X.  was  a  tall  man  of  fine  physique, 
dressed  in  a  grey  tweed  suit,  and  he  always 
wore  a  black  tie  with  a  rather  flash-looking 
pearl  pin.  On  the  street  he  wore  a  "billycock" ; 
he  never  carried  stick,  umbrella,  or  gloves.  He 
had  a  hard,  bony  face,  a  short  bristly  mous- 
tache, and  a  devil-may-care  expression  which 
boded  ill  for  anyone  who  should  cross  him. 
Altogether  a  tough-looking  customer. 

He  appeared  to  have  plenty  of  money  too 
40 


LIFE    IN    CORK 

and  nothing  to  do  all  day  but  chaff  the  waiters, 
drink  whiskies-and-sodas  and  stand  at  the  door 
of  the  hotel  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Once 
or  twice  I  met  him  in  the  street,  standing  out- 
side some  tea-shop  or  lounging  along  the  pave- 
ment treating  the  world  to  a  defiant  sneer.  If 
by  chance  one  fell  into  conversation  with  the 
hall-porter  of  the  hotel  or  any  of  its  residents, 
this  individual  appeared  from  nowhere;  you 
would  suddenly  find  him  lighting  a  cigar  at 
your  elbow  or  looking  out  of  the  window  with- 
in hearing  distance,  or  he  would  frankly  seat 
himself  opposite  and  order  a  drink. 

We  had  a  conversation  about  nothing.  We 
regarded  one  another  with  hostility.  I  never 
discovered  anything  about  X.  except  that  he 
had  served  in  the  South  African  War  and  had 
held  a  commission  during  the  European  War. 
To  the  end  of  my  journey — and  we  were  often 
to  meet — X.  remained  a  mystery. 

That  Cork  was  full  of  spies  and  that  a  stray 
Englishman  bent  upon  an  apparently  aimless 
mission  was  bound  to  be  taken  for  one,  soon 
41 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

became  evident.  It  was  a  novel  sensation.  On 
the  second  morning  after  my  arrival,  while 
writing  letters  in  the  hotel  smoking-room, 
which  abutted  upon  the  busy  street,  a  dark, 
lean  individual  wearing  a  brown  suit  attracted 
my  attention.  He  passed  and  repassed  on  the 
opposite  pavement,  each  time  glancing  at  the 
window  before  which  I  sat.  I  drew  the  lace 
curtains,  through  the  interstices  of  which  I 
could  see  my  friend  without  being  seen.  He 
stopped  nearly  opposite,  looked  casually  up  and 
down  the  street,  and  then  keenly  at  my  window. 

Later  on  I  had  occasion  to  walk  up  to  Vic- 
toria Barracks.  Half-way  along  Patrick  Street 
I  caught  sight  of  the  hungry-looking  creature 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  I  let  him  get 
slightly  ahead  and  before  reaching  the  bridge 
swerved  sharp  down  a  side-street  and  so  back 
to  the  hotel 

When  later  I  did  visit  the  Barracks,  it 
dawned  upon  me  that  the  groups  of  young  men 
loafing  outside  public-houses  in  the  neighbour- 
hood were  not  so  idle  as  they  looked.  Seeing 
two  respectable-looking  gentlemen  conversing 

42 


LIFE    IN    CORK 

at  a  street  corner,  I  inquired  the  best  way  to 
my  destination.  One  of  them  gave  me  a  di- 
rection in  purest  Cockney,  the  other  so  con- 
fidential a  wink  that  I  realised  we  all  belonged 
in  each  other's  opinion  to  the  freemasonry 
of  X. 

Notwithstanding  this  subterranean  activity 
and  despite  the  fact  that,  on  the  following 
morning,  all  the  postmen  were  held  up  on  their 
rounds  and  robbed  of  their  mails,  Cork  city 
seemed  quiet  after  Dublin. 

Even  Patrick  Street  did  not  startle.  There 
it  was  hot  and  busy  in  the  sunshine,  and  you 
hardly  noticed  at  first  the  area  of  stark  ruins 
in  the  very  centre  of  it.  Then  you  thought  of 
— Amiens. 

And  you  realised  why  the  ruins  were — in 
your  eyes — inconspicuous;  because  they  had 
grown  normal  and  customary  in  seven  years, 
because  ruins  were  characteristic  of  the  Ireland 
of  1921. 

There  were  to  be  seen  at  all  hours,  it  is  true, 
an  extraordinary  number  of  young  and  middle- 
aged,  able-bodied  men  standing,  about  the 

43 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

streets ;  and  that  seemed  typical  of  Cork,  as  of 
most  other  Irish  towns.  It  was  due,  in  part, 
to  the  slackness  of  the  port  and  of  business 
generally,  but  mainly  to  the  closing  down  of 
Ford's  Works  which  had  been  established  to 
supply  agricultural  tractors  for  the  whole  of 
Ireland  and  had  hitherto  employed  between 
700  and  800  men. 

Soldiers  thronged  the  streets  but  few  Irreg- 
ulars, and  comparatively  few  of  those  clatter- 
ing armed  lorries  and  cars  which  had  con- 
fronted you  half  a  dozen  times  an  hour  in 
Dublin.  .  .  .  "K"  Division  had  gone  "up 
country." 

And  to  a  certain  extent  this  appearance  of 
peaceableness  was  illusory.  One  of  the  first 
men  I  met  in  Cork  was  the  manager  of  a  big 
business  there  who  on  the  previous  Friday 
evening  had  been  the  victim  of  an  unpleasant 
experience.  It  was  pay-day.  Surrounded  by 
notes  and  cash,  he  sat  in  his  office  about  5.30 
when  the  door  was  flung  open  and  four  rough- 
looking  men  entered,  levelling  revolvers  at  his 
head.  One  of  the  four  was  masked,  the  others 

44 


LIFE    IN    CORK 

wore  false  moustaches.  The  leader  than  or- 
dered the  manager  to  conduct  him  to  the  safe 
where  the  bulk  of  pay  was  kept.  The  latter 
did  so  with,  as  he  described  it,  "one  of  the 
swine  backing  away  from  me  holding  a  revol~ 
ver  in  a  shaking  hand  and  another  prodding 
me  in  the  back  with  a  revolver-barrel;"  the 
other  members  of  the  gang  meanwhile  were 
helping  themselves  to  the  loose  cash  on  the 
office-desk.  They  eventually  made  off  with 
£1,200  in  cash,  and,  in  the  words  of  the  fairy 
story,  "were  never  heard  of  again." 

Another  gentleman  I  met  in  Cork  was  a  bank 
manager.  His  experience  was  that  having, 
during  a  two  minutes'  absence,  left  open  his 
strong-room  door,  "some  person  or  persons 
unknown"  had  entered  and  relieved  the  bank 
of  £800 — "an  almost  weekly  occurrence"  he 
called  it. 

Most  Cork  business  firms  now  pay  wages  by 
cheque.  .  .  . 

These,  of  course,  were  ordinary  crimes. 
There  were  undoubtedly  at  this  time  increasing 
signs  of  the  professional  criminal  element  tak- 

45 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

ing  advantage  of  the  unsettled  conditions  in 
the  South,  and  against  them  the  police  seemed 
practically  powerless:  there  were  also  the  in- 
tricate machinations  of  Sinn  Fein.  And  there 
were  still  the  Black  and  Tans.  The  unfortunate 
populace  fell  between  two  stools,  if  not  three, 
as  the  following  episode  shows. 

The  wife  of  a  big  man  of  business  in  Cork 
was  informed  by  her  servants  that  her  house- 
maid must  go.  She  had  been  guilty  of  the 
offence  of  talking  to  Black  and  Tans.  Sinn 
Fein  vengeance,  they  pointed  out,  was  in- 
evitable. "But,"  the  lady  of  the  house  sug- 
gested, "what  about  the  Black  and  Tans — 
won't  they  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  if  I 
turn  her  out  ?"  And  the  other  servants  agreed 
that  they  would.  Anyway,  the  housemaid  re- 
mained, and  the  household  has  not  since  been 
disturbed. 

All  of  which  events  did  not  prevent  Miss 
Blank  from  giving  a  dance.  For  even  while 
these  sinister  details  were  being  related,  strains 
of  ragtime  floated  down  the  stairs,  and  there 
could  be  heard  overhead  the  patter  of  Miss 

46 


LIFE    IN    CORK 

Blank's  guests  and  there  could  even  be  per- 
ceived Miss  Blank's  lady  and  gentlemen  friends 
sitting  out  on  sofas  and  in  corners. 

And  you  heard  snatches  of  conversation  like 
this: 

"Well,  Mr.  Murphy,  we  haven't  seen  much 
of  you  lately?" 

"No,  Miss  O'Hara,  I've  given  up  social  life. 
I've  taken  to  golf." 

"Come  and  look  us  up  one  day "  etc. 

Nor  did  the  desperate  events  aforementioned 
prevent  the  big  new  tea-shop  on  Patrick  Street 
from  being  filled  with  the  rank  and  fashion  of 
Cork  of  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Here  every- 
body seemed  to  know  everybody  and  here  I  was 
introduced  to  two  ladies,  mother  and  sister  of 
a  prosperous  merchant,  who  a  few  days  before 
had  had  a  bad  fright.  With  the  son  of  the 
former  they  had  been  rambling  about  the  cliff 
of  an  old  quarry  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
and  had  reached  the  highest  part  of  it  when  an 
armed  load  of  Black  and  Tans  appeared  be- 
neath and  shouted  to  them  to  come  down  and 
identify  themselves.  They  proceeded  to  de- 
47 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

scend  as  best  they  could  but  were  told  they 
were  not  moving  fast  enough  and  found  half 
a  dozen  rifles  levelled  at  them.  It  was  not  a 
laughing  matter  then ! 

Isolated,  burnt-out  houses  confronted  you  on 
many  Cork  streets,  and  you  were  told  that  they 
had  once  been  Sinn  Fein  clubs.  But  when,  in 
the  evening,  you  saw  the  aged  shawled  women 
sitting  gossiping  in  rows  by  the  Mall  waterside 
with  the  sunshine  warming  the  grey  stone 
bridge  and  the  old  houses  beyond  fringed  with 
new  green  of  flowering  chestnuts,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  the  city  had  passed  through 
such  stressful  times.  You  entered  the  Town 
Club  nearby  and  found  men  dining  and  drink- 
ing and  playing  cards  together  in  civilised  com- 
fort without  reference  to  politics  or  religion. 
A  matter  of  the  first  importance  is  a  golf 
handicap  that  is  to  be  played  off  on  the  follow- 
ing day;  a  matter  for  some  resentment  is  the 
fact  that  an  officer  has  taken  to  playing  his 
round  with  an  armed  escort,  thereby  chal- 
lenging Sinn  Fein  retribution  upon  the 
greens ! 


LIFE    IN    CORK 

One  was  repeatedly  assured  in  Cork  that 
militant  Sinn  Fein  was  a  Young  Man's  Move- 
ment exclusively  —  that  the  parents  disap- 
proved, indeed  begged  their  sons  not  to  partic- 
ipate in  political  activity.  During  a  long  wait 
at  the  Barrack  gate  one  afternoon,  I  found  a 
middle-aged,  respectable-looking  woman  who 
carried  a  small  basket  and  a  brown-paper 
parcel  pleading  for  an  interview  with  a  son  who 
was  awaiting  his  trial.  The  sentry  at  the  gate 
was  uncouth  but  not  unkind. 

"Too  late  to-day,  missis.    You  can  see  him    . 
to-morrow  between  11  and  12,  or  2  and  3." 

"What  can  I  bring  him,  please — cigarettes 
—cake— tea?" 

"Oh!  anything  you  like!" 

She  went  away  presently,  muttering  through 
tears,  "Maybe  he'll  be  released." 

It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  that  woman 
counselled  ambush,  treachery,  murder;  but  in 
Ireland  they  say,  "You  never  know." 

And  there  were  incidents  of  another  sort. 
There  was  a  calm  spring  evening  when  I  made 
49 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

my  way  out  to  Blackrock  and  walked  back 
along  the  river-road.  Near  the  city  at  an  open 
ground  where  children  play,  high  commotion 
prevailed.  Mothers,  fathers,  children,  and  pas- 
sers-by were  all  jabbering  together  and  point- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  town.  Somebody's 
child,  it  appeared,  had  been  kidnapped  by  a 
mysterious  individual  in  a  motor-car. 

"No  Irishman  did  that,"  caught  my  ear  as 
I  passed;  "it's  some  bastard  of  an  English- 
man." 

One  later  evening  I  came  to  an  unlovely 
burnt-out  villa  on  the  outskirts,  on  the  front 
of  which  was  scrawled  "Up,  Dublin !"  between 
two  rudely-painted  shamrocks.  Beneath  was 
a  sort  of  coat-of-arms  consisting  of  two  grey- 
hounds, heads  above  a  scroll  upon  which  was 
inscribed  the  word  "Libertas."  Beneath  this, 
again,  ran  the  inscription,  "Remember  1916! 
Irishmen,  join  the  I.R.A." 

But  the  best  commentary  on  daily  life  in 
Cork  was  a  local  newspaper  placard  at  a  street 
corner : 

50 


THE   WEEK'S   WARFARE 


MURDER   BY   INSANE   PROFESSOR 


CAUGHT   AT   DRILL 

FIVE   CIVILIANS   KILLED 

GARDENING   AND   POULTRY   NOTES 

TALKS   ON    HEALTH 


ALL  THE   USUAL   FEATURES 


CHAPTER  IV 

TALKS   WITH   SINN   FEIN 

AN  introduction  from  Dublin  brought  me 
into  touch  with  an  obliging  intermediary 
in  the  city  of  Cork  through  whom  I  was  en- 
abled to  approach  two  of  the  leading  Republi- 
cans in  the  South. 

In  England  it  had  seemed  a  curious  feature 
of  the  Irish  situation — though  one  resulting 
almost  inevitably  from  the  rapid  evolution  of 
Sinn  Fein — that  while  our  "governing  classes" 
had  been  stirred  to  the  depths  by  the  war  in 
Ireland,  the  leaders  of  that  war  on  the  oppos- 
ing side  were  all  but  unknown  even  by  name. 
In  Dublin,  Mr.  de  Valera  and  Messieurs 
Michael  Collins  and  Richard  Mulcahy  had 
proved  elusive.  And  to  me,  as  to  most  English- 
men, they  represented,  in  the  one  case  a  nebu- 
lous and  visionary  being,  a  leader  of  Irish 
idealism  though  not  necessarily  of  militant 

52 


TALKS    WITH    SINN   FEIN 

Republicanism,  in  the  other  something  sinistei 
and  ominous,  something  vaguely,  indefinitely 
hostile. 

It  seemed  not  less  important  to  get  an  idea 
of  the  character  and  attitude  of  the  Sinn  Fein 
leaders,  because  at  this  date,  April  23rd,  Lord 
Derby,  disguised  as  "Mr.  Edwards,"  was 
known  to  have  just  left  Dublin:  and  he  the 
last,  but  not  the  least  of  a  long  succession  of 
peace-makers  whose  names  included  Lord 
Haldane  (early  in  April)  and  (in  March)  two 
prominent  young  Unionist  Members  of  Par- 
liament. 

It  thus  came  about  that,  accompanied  by  a 
friend,  I  entered  the  City  Hall.  Here  stood 
a  long  queue  of  respectable-looking  people,  in- 
cluding young  girls  and  middle-aged  men  and 
women,  waiting,  I  was  informed,  to  receive 
their  dole  («£!  to  £2  a  week)  from  the  fund 
subscribed  by  the  United  States  of  America 
and  the  City  of  Cork  for  sufferers  in  the  "war." 
They  looked  the  sort  of  people  who,  in  peace- 
able times,  would  have  earned  an  income  of 
£1  to  £2  a  day. 

53 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

We  passed  through  the  Assize  Court  with  its 
judges'  bench,  its  old-fashioned  prisoners'  dock, 
and  the  insignia  of  British  justice — a  rather 
superfluous  emblem  amid  those  dusty  sur- 
roundings— embroidered  above  the  judge's 
chair.  We  entered  a  rather  bare  little  room 
where,  seated  at  a  table  facing  the  door,  was 
a  slight,  keen-looking,  clean-shaven  man  darkly 
clothed  and  about  35  years  of  age.  Barry  M. 
Egan  reminds  one  of  certain  symbolists  of  the 
French  Revolution.  Here  were  the  pallid,  al- 
most ill-looking  features,  the  calm  formal  man- 
ner, the  thin,  precise  lips  of — a  doctrinaire? 
When  this  man  spoke,  it  was  coldly  and  de- 
liberately. He  was  unsparing ;  he  was  polite. 

Such  was  the  Deputy-Lord  Mayor  of  Cork, 
whose  big  jewellery  business  was  burned  down 
in  December  1920.  Mr.  Egan  spoke  with  a 
frankness  for  which  I  felt  truly  and  deeply 
obliged,  giving  in  reasoned  and  passionless 
terms  the  Republican  standpoint. 

He  was  crisp.  And  if  message  there  was 
to  people  on  this  side  of  the  Irish  Sea,  it  was 
this: 

5* 


TALKS    WITH    SINN    FEIN 

"Get  out!" 

"Get  out!"  he  added  sharply,  "We  don't 
object  to  you  personally  but — leave  us  in  peace ! 
We  don't  want  to  be  a  pawn  in  your  politics. 
We  are  ready  for  war  or  peace,  and  the  deci- 
sion lies  with  you." 

I  put  to  him  the  question: 

"Do  you  think  it  possible  that  some  liberal 
measure  of  self-government  within  the  Empire 
— Dominion  Home  Rule,  for  instance — would 
satisfy  the  aspirations  of  your  people?" 

"That,  and  all  kindred  questions,"  he  an- 
swered, "are  matters  for  the  consideration  of 
President  de  Valera  and  the  elected  representa- 
tives of  the  Irish  people — Dail  Eireann.  It 
is  not  for  me  to  express  an  opinion.  But  this 
much  I  can  say.  Whatever  is  offered,  what- 
ever settlement  is  proposed  by  your  Govern- 
ment, must  be  backed  by  something  more 
tangible  than  promises.  Of  promises  we've 
had  enough  and  more  than  enough  in  Ireland. 
Now  we  want — at  least — pledges." 

"What  would  you  suggest  as  a  substantial 

pledge?" 

55 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

"Clear  out  your  armed  forces,  put  your  cards 
on  the  table.  That's  business." 

"I  hear  unofficial  negotiations  are  going  on 
in  Dublin  at  this  moment.  What  is  your  opin- 
ion of  their  prospect?" 

"This  is  a  matter  for  the  Irish  people.  It 
is  a  question  for  'we  ourselves/  English 
politicians  had  much  better  keep  out  of  it.  I 
believe  Lord  Derby  is  an  honest  man  and  a 
gentleman ;  no  doubt  he  means  well.  But  any- 
thing that  is  done  has  got  to  be  done  'over  the 
counter/  We  want  no  secret  negotiations. 
President  de  Valera  has  made  that  clear." 

"You  do  not  object  to  us  as  a  nation,  then, 
but  to  the  Forces  and  methods  of  the  Crown  ?" 

"As  a  nation  you  are  responsible  for  our 
sufferings  during  three  hundred  years.  You 
don't  understand  us,  and  you  don't  attempt  to 
and  I  don't  believe  you  want  to.  The  English 
people  could  stop  this  reign  of  terror  to-morrow 
if  they  had  a  mind  to.  But  how  many  English- 
men have  ever  read  a  page  of  Irish  history? 
The  Government  of  Ireland  has  always  been 
in  the  hands  of  the  'governing'  classes  in  Eng- 

56 


TALKS   WITH   SINN   FEIN 

land;  and  what  have  they  ever  done  for  us? 
You  accuse  Germany  of  tearing  up  a  treaty  as 
though  it  were  a  scrap  of  paper.  From  1782 
to  1798  we  had  a  treaty  with  England.  She 
tore  it  up  in  1800." 

"The  Land  Purchase  Act  of  1903 !"  I 

began. 

"Was  that  Home  Rule?  Was  that  the  ful- 
filment of  your  promises?  The  fact  remains, 
my  friend,  that  a  population  of  eight  and  a  half 
millions  has  sunk  to  four  millions,  that  year 
after  year  the  very  life-blood  of  this  country, 
its  finest  young  men  and  young  women,  has 
flowed  out  of  it.  There  is  room  and  there  is 
work  in  this  country  for  twelve  millions  of 
people.  A  market  three  times  as  great  as  at 
present  is  waiting  to  be  developed,  three  or 
four  times  the  amount  of  goods  might  be  manu- 
factured. And — always  remember — you  are 
our  natural  market :  your  prosperity  and  ours 
depend  one  upon  the  other." 

"In  case  of  war,"  he  added,  "why  should  we 
side  against  you  ?  Why  should  we  oppose  our 
own  best  interests?" 

57 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

Of  violence  (and  its  reactions)  Mr,  Egan 
said: 

"Murders  and  crime  we  all  execrate.  We 
don't  want  war;  it's  imposed  on  us.  We'd 
much  sooner  have  our  men  tilling  the  fields. 
But,  I  ask  again,  who  is  responsible  for  these 
things,  who  is  responsible  for  the  present  reign 
of  terror?'* 

I  reminded  the  Deputy-Lord  Mayor  of  the 
Prime  Minister's  statement  in  his  Reply  to 
the  Bishop  of  Chelmsford  (April  19th,  1921)  : 

Why  was  the  Auxiliary  Division  constituted? 
Authority  for  the  formation  of  the  Auxiliary  Divi- 
sion, which  is  composed  entirely  of  ex-officers  of  the 
Navy,  Army,  and  Air  Force,  was  given  on  the  10th  of 
July,  1920,  after  fifty-six  policemen,  four  soldiers,  and 
seventeen  civilians  had  been  brutally  assassinated,  and 
it  did  not  come  into  really  effective  operation  until 
over  a  hundred  policemen  had  been  murdered  in  cold 
blood. 

Mr.  Egan  simply  handed  me  a  typewritten 
document  giving  Sinn  Fein's  version  of  the 
events  which  led  up  to  the  first  shootings,  with 
the  remark: 

"You'd  better  not  let  the  Black  and  Tans 
58 


TALKS    WITH    SINN    FEIN 

catch  you  with  this."  Later,  I  had  reason  to 
remember  that  caution. 

"It  is  absurd,  therefore,  to  say,"  the  Deputy- 
Lord  Mayor  went  on  when  I  had  read  the 
typescript,  "that  murders  of  police  caused  the 
policy  of  which  they  were  the  result.  It  was, 
Gessler  began  it,  not  Tell.  And  if  there  have 
been  a  hundred  armed  police  killed,  there  have 
been  hundreds  of  unarmed  Irish  killed.  The 
plan  of  this  so-called  Government  is  not  to 
suppress  murder  and  restore  law  and  order, 
but  to  suppress  a  people  and  to  restore  over 
them  a  lawless  domination  whose  infamies 
they  hate  and  whose  spirit  they  despise." 

"But  how  do  you  defend  the  ambushes  and 
the  killing  of  soldiers  and  policemen  in  cold 
blood  by  men  not  in  uniform?" 

"An  ambush  is  a  legitimate  act  of  war. 
Ambushers  should  be  treated,  therefore,  as 
prisoners  of  war.  The  I.R.A.  do  not  fight  in 
uniform,  but  the  Boers  did  not  fight  in  uniform 
in  the  Boer  War,  and  they  were  recognised  as 
combatants.  Your  men  go  about  armed  to  the 
teeth.  They  murder  and  terrorise  indiscrimi- 

59 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

nately.  What  the  Germans  did  in  Belgium, 
you  are  doing  here." 

"And  the  I.R.A.  'executions'?" 

"I  believe  that  no  'execution'  is  carried  out 
by  the  I.R.A.  except  after  the  most  careful 
(investigation,  and  when  the  accused  has  been 
found  guilty  of  being  a  murderer  or  a  spy. 
Remember,  we're  at  war.  Fighting's  only 
just  begun.  So  far  it's  been  a  mere  skirmish. 
You  shot  hundreds  of  Germans  in  cold  blood 
in  France ;  you  shoot  Irishmen  in  cold  blood  in 
Cork  Barracks;  for  every  one  of  these  the 
I.R.A  shoots  one  of  yours." 

"Have  you  come  much  into  contact  with  the 
Crown  Forces  yourself?"  I  ventured. 

Egan  smiled.  Our  mutual  friend  answered 
my  question. 

"The  military  invaded  the  City  Hall  during 
the  Deputy-Lord  Mayor's  inaugural  speech. 
You  were  searched  by  a  subaltern  of  the  Hamp- 
shire Regiment,  weren't  you,  Mr.  Egan?" 

The  Deputy-Lord  Mayor  nodded. 

"But  I  finished  my  speech,"  he  said,  again 
smiling. 

60 


TALKS   WITH   SINN   FEIN 

His  last  words  were: 

"We  want  one  thing — a  Republic.  And 
we'll  have  it  in  spite  of  you." 

That  same  evening  I  called  upon  Alderman 
Liamon  de  Roiste  (William  Roche),  M.P.,  at 
the  offices  of  the  Irish  Industrial  Development 
Association.  In  him  I  found  a  typical  Repub- 
lican of  the  Cork  school — one  less  pronounced 
perhaps  but  not  less  advanced  than  Barry 
Egan.  He,  too,  is  an  "intellectual,"  but  a  hu- 
morous glint  behind  spectacles  and  an  occa- 
sional droop  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth  seem 
to  betray  a  less  sternness  and  a  warmer  hu- 
manity. 

Liamon  de  Roiste  is  a  native  of  Cork  and 
by  profession  a  secondary  school-teacher.  He 
was  employed  on  the  staff  of  the  Cork  School 
of  Commerce  before  occupying  his  present  po- 
sition as  Secretary  of  the  Irish  Industrial 
Development  Association.  He  is  senior  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament  for  Cork  County,  a  member 

of  the  City  Corporation  and  of  Dail  Eireann. 
61 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

My  first  question  was : 

"Do  you  consider  that  all  Ireland  with  the 
exception  of  Ulster  supports  the  Separatist 
movement,  or  only  a  section  of  it?" 

"As  a  whole,  yes,  though  of  course  different 
forces  operate." 

"You  don't  think  the  people  are  influenced 
by  the  actions  of  a  few  dominant  personali- 
ties?" 

"As  to  that,  one  might  say  of  all  countries 
that  their  peoples  are  led  by  the  most  forceful 
personalities.  England  and  Mr.  Lloyd  George, 
for  instance." 

Liamon  de  Roiste's  eyes  twinkled. 

"No.  The  old  people  are  Sinn  Feiners  be- 
cause many  suffered  imprisonment  in  Land 
League  and  Gaelic  League  days ;  a  certain  num- 
ber of  middle-aged  people  remain  Constitu- 
tional Nationalists ;  the  young  people  are  afire 
with  patriotism." 

"What  then  brought  about  the  apparently 
abrupt  change  from  Constitutional  National- 
ism to  Sinn  Fein  ?" 

"Speaking  chronologically,  I  think  the  for- 

62 


TALKS    WITH    SINN    FEIN 

mation  of  the  Ulster  Volunteers  in  1914  and 
the  counter-formation  of  the  National  Volun- 
teers gave  the  first  impetus.  Then  the  failure 
to  operate  Mr.  Asquith's  Home  Rule  Act  after 
it  had  received  the  Royal  Assent.  (By  that 
time,  you  see,  we  were  getting  a  bit  fed  up 
with  English  promises.)  Hostility  to  England 
undoubtedly  grew  under  Maxwell's  unceasing 
prosecutions  for  sedition,  suppressions  of 
newspapers,  and  perpetual  searches  and  im- 
prisonments in  1914, 1915,  and  1916.  The  Eas- 
ter Rebellion  in  spite  of  its  failure  drew  all 
Irishmen  together,  and  the  executions  that  fol- 
lowed made  an  enduring  impression.  All  the 
while  we  were  told  we  were  fighting  for  the 
principle  of  Self -Determination  and  the  Rights 
of  Small  Nations.  Then  came  the  Peace  Con- 
ference, 'Wilsonism,'  and  the  League  of  Na- 
tions. These  set  people  thinking  and  gave  a 
constructive  impetus  to  the  movement.  Since 
1916,  you  must  understand,  the  state  of  affairs 
has  become  steadily  worse.  The  real  change 
of  feeling  in  this  city  began  with  the  murder 
of  Lord  Mayor  MacCurtain.  The  Govern- 
63 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

ment's  militant  policy  has  had  exactly  the  re- 
verse effect  of  that  intended." 

"But  how  do  you  reconcile  unprecedented 
prosperity — which  I  suppose  you'll  admit — 
with  armed  insurrection?" 

"People  fight  best  on  a  full  stomach,  you 
know.  Ireland,  of  course,  is  an  agricultural 
country,  and  tillage  certainly  was  stimulated 
by  the  war — always  is.  Industrially,  we've 
probably  gone  back,  if  anything." 

"In  your  opinion,  has  Bolshevism  or  the 
Third  International  anything  in  common  with 
Sinn  Fein?" 

"Nonsense — absolutely." 

"And  to-day  would  you  say  the  Irish  peo- 
ple are  definitely  anti-English  or  only  anti- 
Government?" 

"We  feel  no  hostility  to  the  English  people 
or  to  the  Army ;  only  to  the  Irregular  Forces  of 
the  Crown  and  other  instruments  of  your  Gov- 
ernment." 

"  'Black  Sunday'  in  Dublin  made  a  terrible 
impression  in  England." 

"One  cannot  condone  murder.    But  are  you 

64 


TALKS    WITH   SINN   FEIN 

by  chance  aware  that  a  man  was  shot  here  the 
other  day  for  being  in  possession  of  a  revol- 
ver?" 

"What  do  you  consider  the  shortest  way  to 
peace  ?" 

"A  Republic." 

"Would  the  Irish  people  accept  anything 
less?" 

"The  tendency  of  all  modern  States,  in  my 
belief,  is  to  pull  away  from  the  centre  rather 
than  obey  a  centripetal  force.  Dominion  Home 
Rule  has  been  talked  about,  but  I  would  prefer 
not  to  dogmatise  about  it  while  the  matter 
is  under  consideration  by  the  parties  con- 
cerned." 

"You  can  define  what  you  mean  by  Domin- 
ion Home  Rule,  though?" 

"Well,  it  must  be  the  real  thing  as  Canada 
and  Australia  have  it.  There  must  be  no  Eng- 
lish garrison  or  control  of  our  ports;  foreign 
affairs  must  be  a  matter  of  joint  consultation. 
A  self-governing  Dominion  must  have  fiscal 
autonomy,  of  course." 

"And  Ulster?" 

65 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

"She  must  come  into  the  national  Parlia- 
ment on  the  same  terms  as  the  other  provinces 
with  perhaps  some  additional  representation." 

"Would  that  meet  her  views?" 

Mr.  de  Roiste  hesitated,  stroked  his  chin, 
and  then  said: 

"A  Provincial  Federation  on  Swiss  lines 
might  be  worth  considering."  He  paused,  then 
added,  "Ireland,  you  know,  is  not  suited  to  a 
strongly  bureaucratic  Government." 

I  put  a  curious  but  (to  me)  interesting  ques- 
tion: 

"It  might  strike  a  casual  student  of  Irish 
history  that  the  genius  of  your  race  is  not  truly 
Republican,  or  even  Democratic.  What  do  you 
think?" 

Liamon  de  Roiste  smiled. 

"Ah — that's  looking  a  long  way  ahead.  But 
it  may  be  as  you  say.  .  .  ." 

My  last  inquiry  was : 

"Have  you  hopes  of  an  early  peace,  and 
would  peace  bring  friendship  with  it  ?" 

"Ireland  could  never  be  more  hostile  than 
she  is  now.  Given  peace,  she  has  no  reason 
66 


TALKS    WITH    SINN    FEIN 

to  be  hostile.  All  our  economic  interest,  all  our 
future,  in  fact,  are  bound  up  with  yours.  Your 
Navy  controls  the  seas.  During  the  war  Hol- 
land could  at  any  time  have  been  occupied  by 
Germany,  couldn't  she?  Can  a  great  country 
like  yours  have  anything  to  fear  from  a  little 
one  living  within  its  shadow?" 

I  casually  gathered  that  Mr.  Augustine  Bir- 
rell  represented  Sinn  Fein's  idea  of  a  good 
Chief  Secretary — or  rather,  "the  best  of  a  bad 
lot." 

There  were  one  or  two  other  leading  Sinn 
Feiners  in  Cork  City  at  this  time  with  whom  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  make  acquaintance 
but  who  were  what  was  technically  known  as 
"on  the  run."  The  majority  of  them  subse- 
quently took  up  their  residence  at  a  bleak  spot 
called  Ballykinlar  on  the  coast  of  Down.  In- 
cluded among  them  was  a  certain  Walsh,  M.P., 
member  of  Dail  Eireann  for  Cork  City,  who 
for  some  time  held  a  position  under  the  Board 
of  Agriculture.  But  it  was  Liamon  de  Roiste 
who,  after  being  "on  the  run"  for  several 
67 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

months,  claimed  arrears  of  salary  due  from  the 
Technical  Board  under  which  he  had  been  em- 
ployed on  account  of  absence  from  his  duties 
"for  reasons  beyond  his  control." 
The  claim  failed! 


CHAPTER  V 
TALKS   WITH   SOUTHERN   UNIONISTS 

WHATEVER  notions  or  preconceptions  a 
man  brought  with  him  to  Cork,  the  site 
of  the  burnings  demanded  a  first-hand  expla- 
nation.   Nor  did  he  usually  have  long  to  wait 
for  one. 

"I  thought  there  was  something  up  that 
evening,"  an  early  acquaintance  volunteered. 
"My  wife  and  I  were  walking  along  Patrick 
Street  about  nine  o'clock  when  they  came 
charging  up  and  down,  lorry-loads  of  them, 
firing  their  guns,  shouting,  and  doing  every- 
thing they  could  to  frighten  the  people  off  the 
streets.  It's  a  crowded  time  here,  nine  o'clock, 
and  I  heard  one  or  two  shout,  'Get  along  home.' 
So  I  said  to  my  wife,  'Come  along !  We'd  best 
get  home/  In  the  night  she  woke  me  up. 
'Look/  she  said,  and  it  was  like  daylight 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

through  the  blind.  I  looked  out  and  saw  the 
town  was  on  fire." 

Another  citizen,  a  municipal  official,  said: 

"I  shall  never  forget  that  night.  I  was  at  it 
from  half -past  ten  till  daybreak,  walking  about 
the  streets,  carrying  buckets  of  water,  and  try- 
ing to  get  the  soldiers  and  police  to  lend  a  hand. 
...  Did  I  see  them  at  it?  Well,  I  didn't  be- 
cause they  cleared  everybody  off  the  streets  be- 
fore curfew.  But  when  the  fires  had  fairly 
got  a  hold  and  I  was  sent  for,  the  place  was 
alive  with  them — some  drunk  or  at  any  rate 
behaving  like  maniacs." 

"Lots  of  people  saw  them  at  it  from  their 
bedroom  windows,"  was  the  account  of  a  third 
resident.  "Why,  there's  not  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  about  who  did  it.  You  might  as  well 
say  the  man  who  stops  the  traffic  in  Piccadilly 
Circus  is  not  a  policeman !" 

"Sir  Hamar  Greenwood  said  in  the  House 
of  Commons " 

Laughter  greeted  that  name.  It  was  in  the 
Cork  Club.  One  felt  like  a  man  who,  alone  in 
70 


TALKS   WITH   SOUTHERN   UNIONISTS 

a  company  of  experts,  has  made  a  foolish  re- 
mark. 

"Sir  Hamar  Greenwood !!" 

"Talk  about  Welshmen  .  .  .!!" 

More  laughter.  And  it  is  of  no  use  denying 
some  rude  things  were  said. 

"He's  the  chap  who  talked  about  'the  crowds 
in  the  streets  at  2.30  a.m./  when  curfew  was  at 
10p.m.!" 

"And  the  fire  'spreading'  from  Grant's  in 
Patrick  Street  to  the  Carnegie  Library,  eh?" 

"Well,  the  place  seems  quiet  enough  now, 
anyway." 

"Yes — till  it  wakes  up — or  till  to-night — or 
till  to-morrow  morning,"  said  someone  face- 
tiously. 

"  'K'  Division  were  in  Cork  at  the  time," 
remarked  the  Town  Clerk,  as  if  that  explained 
everything.  "After  the  burnings,  I  went  up  to 
see  General  Higginson  at  Victoria  Barracks. 
I  wanted  a  guarantee  that  the  outrages  would 
not  be  repeated.  He  said:  'Anyone,  police  or 
civilian,  who's  found  looting  will  be  shot.'  Next 
day  'K'  Division  left  the  town." 
71 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

What  the  Chief  Secretary  said  in  the  House 
of  Commons  on  December  14,  1920,  was: 

At  9.30  p.m.  the  police  in  Cork  City  received  a  mes- 
sage stating  that  a  fire  had  broken  out  in  the  large 
premises  of  Messrs.  Alexander  Grant  &  Co.,  in  Patrick 
Street,  and  shortly  afterwards  other  fires  were  notified 
as  having  occurred  on  the  premises  of  Messrs.  Cash  & 
Co.  of  the  Munster  Arcade.  .  .  .  Strenuous  efforts 
were  made  by  the  fire  brigade  to  extinguish  the  flames. 
but  despite  their  efforts  the  fire  spread  to  a  number  of 
other  buildings,  including  the  City  Hall,  Carnegie 
Library,  and  fifteen  other  large  business  premises. 

I  repaired  to  the  starting-point.  A  mush- 
room building  had  sprung  up  where  the  old 
Grant's  had  been.  Looking  at  my  watch,  I 
walked  at  a  leisurely  pace  along  Patrick  Street, 
turned  to  the  right  down  Pembroke  Street,  to 
the  left  along  the  Mall,  crossed  the  river  by  the 
bridge,  and  found  myself  facing  the  blackened 
red-brick  of  the  Carnegie  Library  with  the, 
Town  Hall  beyond.  The  time  taken  was  four- 
and-a-half  minutes.  Buildings  and  the  river 
separate  the  two  points;  one  notices  no  signs 
of  burning  except  at  the  corner  of  Cook  Street 
nearly  midway  between. 


72 


TALKS   WITH   SOUTHERN   UNIONISTS 

"Everybody's  taken  a  step  to  the  left.  Your 
old  Nationalists  have  joined  pacifist  Sinn  Fein ; 
pacifist  Sinn  Fein  has  become  active  Republi- 
can; we  Unionists  take  our  stand  on  the  old 
Nationalism.  Although,"  he  added,  "Dillonism 
is  dead/' 

He  was  an  old-fashioned  Unionist  who  had 
lived  a  lifetime  in  Cork.  He  was  weary,  he 
declared,  and  he  was  sick  of  it  all — the  eternal 
politics,  the  fighting,  the  uncertainty  of  every- 
thing. 

"Cork  used  to  be  a  good  enough  place  to  live 
in.  We  prospered  under  the  Union — till  1916. 
We  had  four  packs  of  hounds  within  accessible 
distance,  we  had  boating  and  sailing,  and — 
well,  they  reckoned  it  one  of  the  best  military 
stations  in  Ireland.  Now  I  daren't  motor 
seven  miles  to  the  inland  golf  course." 

"And  what  is  there  to  look  forward  to?"  he 
went  on.  "Nobody  wants  the  Partition  Act — 
nobody  in  the  South  cares  a  brass  button  for 
it.  Good  or  bad,  it's  no  use  giving  a  man  some- 
thing he  doesn't  want.  .  .  .  And  the  finance  of 
the  thing  is  rotten.  Look  here!  An  already 

73 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

over-taxed  country  is  to  pay  eighteen  millions 
annually  to  the  Crown  Exchequer " 

" for  three  years/'  I  interjected. 

" for  services  it  doesn't  want.  The  dual 

legislature  is  enough  in  itself  to  ruin  this  un- 
fortunate country.  Then  they've  washed  out 
the  Excess  Profits  Duty  (without  a  thought 
for  their  commitments  on  the  basis  of  it)  and 
Austen  Chamberlain's  existing  basis  of  reve- 
nue and  expenditure,  namely,  the  seven-and-a- 
half  millions  'surplus'  is  converted  into  a  deficit 
of  two-and-a-half  millions.  And  that's  not  all. 
The  expenditure  of  the  Irish  Government  is 
the  last  charge  on  Irish  Revenue  under  the  Act. 
The  eighteen  millions  tribute  takes  priority. 
The  cost  of  the  Reserved  Services  takes  pri- 
ority. The  Police  are  a  Reserved  Service.  In 
1919-20,  the  'police  vote'  was  three-and-three- 
quarter  millions.  This  year  they  say  the  force 
will  cost  over  seven  millions.  And  so  on.  Well 
— it'll  hit  the  North  harder  in  proportion  than 
it  will  us.  If  the  Act  was  going  to  bring  peace 
one  would  grin  and  bear  it.  But  it's  not.  .  .  ." 

One  had  been  prepared  for  this  "peace"  note 
74 


TALKS   WITH   SOUTHERN   UNIONISTS 

in  Dublin.  The  bewilderment  and  vexation  of 
men  whose  business  was  dwindling  and  whose 
lives  were  turned  upside  down  did  not  surprise 
— or  the  yearning  to  keep  outside  politics  alto- 
gether. What  surprised — one  at  any  rate  who 
had  marched  with  the  Covenanters  in  1913  and 
seen  the  oath  taken  under  the  Ulster  leader's 
own  eyes — what  surprised  was  the  divorce 
from  the  North,  a  coldness,  a  sense  of  separa- 
tion, segregation,  divergent  interests  even. 

The  first  remarks  on  the  boycott  that  reached 
my  ears  came  from  a  director  of  the  Munster 
and  Leinster  Bank.  He  pointed  out  that  no 
Belfast  goods  were  to  be  bought  in  the  shops, 
that  no  more  than  could  be  helped  were  per- 
mitted to  cross  the  Ulster  border,  and  that  no 
Belfast  traveller  did  any  business  in  Cork. 

"Serve  'em  right,  too,"  was  the  gist  of  this 
gentleman's  remarks.  "They  only  think  of 
themselves.  They're  a  lot  of  narrow-minded 
bigots.  Down  here,  at  any  rate,  religion 
makes  no  difference  between  man  and  man  or 
in  social  or  commercial  life.  The  Government 
have  given  us  a  Roman  Catholic  Lord  Lieu- 
75 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

tenant  under  the  impression,  I  suppose,  that  he 
will  be  welcomed  on  religious  grounds.  It  only 
shows  how  little  they  know  of  the  South.  I 
assure  you  that  side  of  it  leaves  us  here  abso- 
lutely cold.  The  only  thing  the  country  wants 
is  peace — peace  under  a  liberalised  form  of 
self-government,  but  peace  first  and  a  chance 
of  settling  down  and  making  money  and  enjoy- 
ing the  fruits  of  these  last  prosperous  years. 
That's  worth  more  to  us  than  any  political  sys- 
tem." 

This  cry  greeted  one  wherever  prosperous 
and  hard-working  citizens  met.  An  unenviable 
position  was  that  of  a  Cork  newspaper-man 
whose  respected  faculty  in  the  town  lay  'be- 
tween the  contentions  of  all  parties.  His 
defence  of  the  Government  of  Ireland  Act — 
and  he  seemed  to  be  its  only  defender — was 
based  on  the  belief  that  if  the  Irish  people  as  a 
whole  desired  a  Republic  or  a  Dominion,  they 
desired  one  thing  more — a  settlement.  He  re- 
garded the  Act,  moreover,  as  a  good  one  in 
itself,  not  indeed  as  an  instrument  capable  of 
settling  the  Irish  Question,  but  as  a  transition 
76 


TALKS   WITH   SOUTHERN  UNIONISTS 

measure  which  by  bringing  the  parties  together 
and,  as  a  pledge — that  pledge  so  often  de- 
manded of  the  Government  by  the  irrecon- 
cilables — contained  the  germ  and  the  promise 
of  better  things. 

These  views,  too  moderate  perhaps,  too 
hopeful  to  prevail  in  the  country  as  a  whole — 
and  yet  perhaps  shared  by  a  larger  proportion 
of  far-sighted  Irishmen  than  dare  own  to  the 
fact — these  views  may  be  crystallised  as  fol- 
lows: 

"Eight  to  ten  per  cent,  of  the  population 
favours  violence,  and  these  almost  exclusively 
the  younger  generation." 

Another  local  man  here  intervened,  saying 
that  he  put  the  proportion  higher — nearer 
twenty  per  cent. 

"In  the  priesthood,  for  instance,"  the  first 
speaker  continued,  "nearly  all  the  older  men 
are  Constitutional  Nationalists,  only  a  propor- 
tion of  the  younger  ones  are  complacent 
towards  Sinn  Fein.  It  is  the  same  with  the 
people.  The  bulk  of  the  country  longs  for 
peace  under  a  decent  measure  of  Home  Rule. 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

A  constitution  which  would  leave  naval  and 
military  control  and  foreign  affairs  as  at  pres- 
ent, whilst,  giving  Ireland  the  right  to  levy  her 
own  taxes,  customs,  and  excise,  would  meet 
the  views  of  all  parties,  providing  a  free  vote 
could  be  obtained.  As  to  the  amount  of  any 
subsidy  to  be  paid  by  Ireland  for  Imperial 
services,  this  ought  to  be  estimated  by  an  inde- 
pendent firm  of  assessors.  The  sine  qua  non 
of  any  permanent  settlement  is  that  through 
the  Council  of  Ireland  or  by  some  other  means, 
South  and  North  shall  eventually  unite  in  a 
single  legislature." 

If  this  was  the  belief  of  an  individual,  it  was 
shared  by  a  dozen  others — bankers,  wine-mer- 
chants, municipal  officials,  journalists :  even  by 
one  or  two  shopkeepers  and  workmen  who 
cling  to  the  old  Nationalism. 

And  there  were  such.  The  most  representa- 
tive of  them,  a  genial  hotel  concierge  with  a 
shrewd  wit  and  intelligence,  is  known  to  wide 
circles  in  England  and  Ireland  as  "Florrie." 
Florrie  is  a  Nationalist  of  the  Redmondite 
school,  and  a  loyal  liege  of  the  Empire.  Rather 
78 


TALKS   WITH    SOUTHERN   UNIONISTS 

past  fifty,  he  declares  that  he  has  been  a  poli- 
tician since  he  was  a  boy.  We  spoke  one  morn- 
ing of  Chief  Secretaries. 

"The  only  man  who  can  save  Ireland,"  said 
he,  "is  Lord  MacDonnell.  Why  have  they 
never  made  him  Chief  Secretary?  He  under- 
stood Ireland  better  than  any  man  before  or 
since  his  time — a  splendid  fellow.  Lord  Tal- 
bot  [sic]  may  be  all  right,  but  we  don't  know 
him  and  he  doesn't  know  us.  Why  don't  they 
give  us  an  Irish  Lord  Lieutenant — Lord  Ken- 
mare,  for  instance  ?  We  all  know  him.  If  he's 
outside  politics,  so  much  the  better.  Then 
Granard — he's  an  Irishman:  and  Lord  Dun- 
raven — a  great  man.  Plenty  of  good  men,  but 
they  send  us  an  Englishman  we  know  nothing 
of.  If  you  ask  about  those  we've  had,  Aber- 
deen was  the  best  of  them " 

"He  wasn't  very  popular  in  Dublin,"  inter- 
rupted somebody.  "They  say  in  Dublin  he 
wasn't  too  fond  of  spending." 

"Never  mind !  Aberdeen  was  all  right.  And 
so  was  Lady  Aberdeen.  People  don't  like  see- 
ing a  lot  of  money  spent  in  these  times.  The 
79 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Aberdeens  went  about  the  country,  and  got  to 
know  the  people.  Everybody  knew  them. 
That's  the  great  thing  in  Ireland." 

"Yes,  Balfour  was  all  right,"  said  Florrie  in 
reply  to  a  question.  "He  was  a  just  man.  His 
mistake  was  the  narrow-gauge  railways. 
Wyndham? — yes.  His  Land  Purchase  Act 
was  good,  but  I've  always  heard  Lord  Dun- 
raven  and  Lord  MacDonnell  had  more  to  do 
with  that  than  Wyndham  had.  Bryce  was  the 
best  of  the  lot,  though — the  best  Chief  Secre- 
tary Ireland's  ever  had." 

The  tangled  skeins,  the  perplexities  of  Cork 
were  finally  drawn  together  by  an  elderly  Con- 
servative, who  seemed  to  typify  that  separate 
entity  in  Ireland  which  has  so  definitely 
emerged  since  Lord  Carson  set  his  seal  to  the 
Partition  Act — the  Southern  Unionist.  Here 
was  a  man  English  rather  than  Scotch;  Irish 
rather  than  Unionist:  a  man  whose  heart 
swelled  with  pride  as  he  told  you  that  his  son 
had  fought  in  the  British  Army  during  the 
war,  whose  business  connections  with  England 
80 


TALKS   WITH   SOUTHERN   UNIONISTS 

were  frequent  and  firm:  withal  a  man  who 
loves  Ireland  and  recognises  his  identity  with 
her  future,  whatever  it  may  be.  He  said : 

"What's  wanted  is  for  the  leaders  to  get 
together  and  settle  this  thing.  They  could  do 
it  in  a  couple  of  hours  if  they  meant  business. 
Only  don't  let  English  politicians  interfere — 
they  don't  understand  us.  Mr.  Lloyd  George 
ought  to  come  out  in  the  House  of  Commons 
and  say  what  he  is  prepared  to  give  us.  In  the 
long  run,  this  is  a  question  of  each  side  giving 
something  away  and  Ulster  getting  the  safe- 
guards she  wants  in  a  Dublin  Parliament. 
Things  can't  go  on  as  they  are.  We  are  no- 
body's enemy  and  nobody's  friend.  And  both 
sides  have  made  mistakes.  The  Black  Sunday 
shootings  in  Dublin  were  a  terrible  mistake. 
People  here  groaned  when  they  heard  of  them. 
On  Sunday  week,  six  soldiers  were  shot  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  this  city  in  reprisal  for  the  exe- 
cutions at  the  barracks.  Then  the  Black  and 
Tans " 

He  stopped,  but  I  pressed  him. 

"The  fact  is,  'K'  Division— not  the  military 

81 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

— were  intolerable.  At  the  same  time,  every- 
body admits  the  discipline  has  improved  since 
they  left  the  town.  I  personally  had  only  one 
experience  of  that  lot.  I  was  walking  home 
one  night  before  curfew  when  a  patrol  stopped 
me,  and  although  they  could  see  I  was  an 
elderly  man  and  in  fact  knew  me  for  a  loyalist, 
a  young  cub  of  nineteen  searched  me,  swore 
at  me,  and  knocked  my  hat  off.  It's  incidents 
like  those  that  turn  moderate  people  into  ex- 
tremists as  much  as,  or  nearly  as  much  as, 
material  losses  do." 


CHAPTER  VI 

LIFE   IN   MALLOW 

IT  seemed  very  curious  that  among  those 
who  knew  local  conditions  best  and  had 
lived  through  recent  years  in  Cork,  a  complete 
difference  of  opinion  prevailed  as  to  the  prac- 
ticability of  walking  the  twenty  miles  between 
Cork  and  Mallow.  Some  were  willing  to  bet 
that  the  traveller  would  not  cover  half  the  dis- 
tance without  getting  into  trouble ;  others  that 
he  would  certainly  be  held  up,  but,  if  capable 
of  giving  a  satisfactory  account  of  himself, 
would  be  allowed  to  proceed;  others,  again, 
asserted  that  he  would  not  be  seriously  inter- 
fered with  unless  he  interfered  with  anyone 
else. 

There  was  another  question  to  be  consid- 
ered.    Was  it  advisable  to  carry  a  pass  or 
passes?     To  this  question,  again,  some  said 
"Yes"  and  some  said  "No,"  while  a  third  party 
83 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

advised  carrying  the  one  pass  but  not  the  other. 
For  that  which  had  been  unobtainable  in  Dub- 
lin, help  and  patience  had  secured  in  Cork.  In 
addition  to  an  informal  passport  from  a  Re- 
publican quarter,  and  that  furnished  by  Dub- 
lin Castle,  I  held  an  envelopeful  of  English 
references.  Finally  I  decided  to  carry  both 
passes. 

And  in  the  upshot,  this  first  stage  on  the  road 
to  Belfast  proved  to  be  a  pleasant  walk.  .  .  . 

The  morning  of  April  25th  broke  chill  and 
cloudy.  The  road  to  Mallow  follows  for  some 
distance  a  gradually  rising  valley.  Donkey- 
carts  loaded  with  peat  and  vegetables  making 
their  way  towards  the  city,  urged  forward  by 
ragged  boys,  occasionally  passed.  Mile  out  a 
lorry-load  of  soldiers,  shouting  and  singing, 
rushed  by  at  breakneck  speed.  Another  passed 
between  Ballynamona  and  Mallow,  and  in  each 
case  I  prepared  for  the  worst,  but  the  lorries 
raced  on.  Otherwise  the  road  was  strangely 
and  significantly  empty. 

Once  two  men  and  a  youth  digging  or  plant- 
ing potatoes  in  a  field,  ran  down  to  the  wall  and 
84 


LIFE    IN    MALLOW 

looked  after  me  when  I  had  passed,  presumably 
because  I  was  a  stranger.  Again,  an  uncouth- 
looking  man  appeared  half  a  mile  away  over 
the  rim  of  the  hill  and  made  obliquely  for  the 
road,  running.  While  we  steadily  approached 
one  another  I  apprehended  the  "trouble,"  which 
I  had  been  warned  to  expect,  but  he  doubled 
crazily  on  across  the  highway  and  disap- 
peared. 

After  a  while  the  sun  came  out  and  set  th? 
gorse  aflame.  Patches  of  barley  and  potatoes 
alternated  with  gorse  and  heather.  Larks 
sang.  The  smiling  springtime  landscape, 
brown  and  yellow  and  dull  green,  would  have 
infected  one  with  its  own  gaiety  had  one  been 
less  conscious  of  the  grim  visagt  behind. 

There  was  a  complete  dearth  of  traffic. 
Every  two  or  three  miles  occurred  loose  places 
in  the  road's  surface,  as  though  it  had  been 
dug  up  and  replaced.  A  definite  reminder  of 
the  realities  of  the  countryside  came  beyond 
the  village  of  Blackpool.  Where  a  grey  stone 
bridge  crosses  a  stream  which  sings  and  rip- 
ples down  a  narrow  ravine,  a  neat  trench  four 

85 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

feet  deep  by  three  broad  had  been  dug  across 
the  road. 

The  greater  trouble  was  a  rucksack.  And 
what  a  perverse  thing  a  rucksack  can  be!  It 
can  cut  your  shoulder  like  a  razor,  cause  you 
to  walk  lop-sided,  and  until  the  two  of  you 
become  better  acquainted,  make  you  feel  old 
before  your  time.  .  .  . 

So  to  Mallow  in  the  late  afternoon,  a  curi- 
ous peace  lying  upon  it,  a  dreaming  quiet 
creeping  down  from  heather-clad  mountains. 
This  is  a  grey  town  with  a  long  straggling 
street  leading  from  the  market-place  to  the 
railway  station;  it  lies  in  a  pastoral  country. 
I  paused  a  long  while  on  the  old  stone  bridge 
which  spans  the  Blackwater,  resting  and 
looking  down  into  turquoise  and  amethyst 
depths  that  reflected  a  blue  sky,  reeds,  lawn- 
like  grass,  the  rounded  tops  of  leafing  elms, 
browns  and  blacks  of  the  lower  hills.  It  was 
like  a  little  thing  of  Corot.  From  some  ruins 
on  the  further  bank  came  chatter  and 
squawking  of  jackdaws.  An  old  man  leant 


LIFE    IN   MALLOW 

against  the  stone  parapet,  smoking  his  pipe, 
and  spitting  reflectively. 

"Yon's  the  ruins  of  Mallow  Castle,"  he 
said,  "built  600  years  ago  by  the  Earl  of 
Desmond.  They  used  to  be  covered  with 
ivy  till  the  Black  and  Tans  came  and  stripped 
it  all  off." 

Then: 

"There  used  to  be  grouse  on  the  moun- 
tain. I  don't  know  whether  there  are  any 
now.  .  .  ." 

A  mile  from  Mallow  lies  the  home  of  Will- 
iam O'Brien — a  white  country-house  sur- 
rounded by  a  large  garden,  grass  fields,  and 
fine  trees.  I  found  the  old  Independent  Na- 
tionalist writing  in  a  room  flooded  with  the 
late  afternoon  sunshine,  filled  with  the  scent 
of  spring  flowers. 

It's  a  pleasant  thing,  isn't  it,  to  see  a  man 
thus  taking  his  ease  in  the  aftermath  of  a 
stormy  life.  The  fine  head,  the  whitening 
beard,  the  restless  eyes  smouldering  behind 
glasses — these  are  no  less  formidable  than 
they  were  in  the  days  when  William  O'Brien 
87 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

galvanised  the  House  of  Commons  into  spas- 
modic attention;  the  manner  and  the  man- 
nerisms no  less  ardent. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  was  the  discour- 
aging opening  remark.  "I  have  said  my  say. 
My  friends  and  myself  warned  them  of  what 
was  coming  years  ago.  We  could  have 
shewn  them  the  way  out  through  a  policy 
of  conference  and  conciliation.  They  paid 
no  heed  to  us.  Now  they've  gone  back  to  it 
again,  but  they've  got  to  deal  with  men  who 
act  first  and  talk  afterwards." 

That  note  dominated  our  discussion. 

''You've  come  to  the  wrong  man,  my 
friend.  Nothing  I  can  say  will  make  any 
difference.  Nobody's  views  count  for  any- 
thing in  Ireland  to-day  except  those  of  a 
member  of  the  Dail  Eireann." 

I  continued,  nevertheless,  to  press  for  a 
more  definite  expression  of  opinion, 

"While  English  parties  believed  me  to  be 
an  enemy  of  England  they  respected  me, 
they  treated  me  fairly;  directly  I  ceased  to 
88 


LIFE    IN    MALLOW 

give  them  trouble,  they  thought  me  no  longer 
worth  attending  to." 

Contempt  of  English  politicians,  disgust 
with  English  evasions,  anger  and  horror  at 
the  happenings  of  recent  years — these  were 
the  recurring  periods  in  a  motif  of  infinite 
regret. 

"The  whole  story  of  our  relations  with 
England,  the  whole  story  of  my  own  polit- 
ical life,  has  been  one  of  trust  and  good  faith 
on  our  part,  of  perfidy  and  broken  promises 
on  yours.  Now  you  see  the  result." 

William  O'Brien's  voice  shook  and  his 
hands  trembled  when  he  mentioned  the  name 
of  Lloyd  George.  We  were  back  in  the  1917 
Convention  days. 

"It  was  an  utter  fraud.  It  was  a  sham  and 
a  fraud,  and  a  way  of  wasting  time  until 
America  was  brought  into  the  war.  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  never  meant  it  to  succeed.  I 
was  in  a  position  to  guarantee  that  Sinn  Fein 
would  be  represented  at  a  small  conference. 
They  refused  my  offer,  they  chose  instead  an 
unwieldy  body  of  seventy  Molly  Maguires, 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

every  one  of  whom  has  since  been  rejected 
at  the  polls." 

"Redmond!  .  .  ." 

"Redmond?"  he  echoed,  "a  figure-head!  A 
respectable  Irish  gentleman,  but  a  figure- 
head in  the  hands  of  less  scrupulous  men." 

I  tried  to  bring  the  Independent  leader  to  the 
stress  of  more  immediate  events. 

"In  anything  I  say  I  speak  for  myself.  What 
I  say  counts  for  nothing.  The  conduct  of  af- 
fairs in  this  country  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
elected  representatives  of  the  Irish  people." 

"Can  nothing  be  done,  then,  to  ease  or  to 
end  the  present  state  of  affairs?" 

"You've  brought  it  on  yourselves,  now — 
leave  us  alone !" 

I  thought  of  Barry  Egan's  "Get  out!"  and 
mentioned  the  Crown  Forces  and  the  state  of 
war  in  the  South. 

"The  methods  of  the  Crown  have  embittered 
all  Ireland  for  generations." 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  three  local  squires, 
one  of  them  a  retired  Army  officer,  who  had 
been  assaulted;  of  incidents  at  Thurles  and 

90 


LIFE    IN    MALLOW 

Fermoy;  of  alleged  wanton  shootings  at  civil- 
ians working  in  allotments  and  gardens,  of 
wanton  damage  to  property. 

I  reminded  him  of  the  campaign  of  the  Re- 
publican Army.  He  laughed — bitterly. 

"That  only  began  after  all  open  attempts  to 
assert  the  will  of  the  people  had  been  savagely 
suppressed.  In  any  case,  it  is  a  war  of  coun- 
try lads  armed  with  shot-guns  and  spades  and 
revolvers  against  all  the  might  of  England, 
and  yet  you  are  miserably  failing  to  put  down 
the  rebellion  you  have  provoked." 

His  solitary  light  in  night  and  storm  was 
this: 

"I've  no  doubt — and  remember  I  speak  for 
nobody  but  myself — I've  no  doubt  a  peace 
could  be  patched  up  still.  But  England's  got 
to  make  the  first  offer.  And  she's  got  to  back 
it  up  with  some  guarantee  that  she  will  keep 
her  word.  She's  never  yet  made  a  definite 
offer." 

When  we  stood  on  the  steps  in  the  failing 
light,  William  O'Brien's  face  relaxed  a  little 
from  its  expression  of  severity  and  scorn. 
91 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

"The  tragedy  of  it  all  is  that  there  never 
was  a  quieter  or  a  happier  place  than  Mallow 
until  this  business  began.  The  people  will  not 
submit  to  being  driven  and  bullied,  but  they 
simply  long  for  peace." 

Next  morning  I  saw  the  blank  space  in  the 
middle  of  Main  Street,  all  stones  and  rubble 
and  bits  of  wall  where  the  Town  Hall  had 
stood.  Up  near  the  Court-house  and  again  at 
the  end  of  the  street  were  gaps  as  in  a  row  of 
teeth  where  houses  seemed  to  have  been  razed 
to  the  ground.  Bare  grey  walls  enclosing  a 
rubbishy  space  proclaimed  where  Mallow's 
creamery  had  been.  I  called  on  the  priest,  and 
was  told  he  was  ill  in  bed  and  that  his  curate 
was  out.  I  then  proceeded  to  the  Protestant 
clergyman's  house  a  mile  away.  It  stands  on 
a  hill. 

Two  knocks  and  a  long  interval  of  waiting 
brought  a  maid-servant. 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Can  I  see  Canon ?" 

"He's  engaged" 

92 


LIFE    IN   MALLOW 

" when  he's  disengaged?" 

Undisguisedly  suspicious,  she  went  to  report 
to  her  master.  Presently  the  Canon  himself 
appeared. 

An  unmistakable  look  came  into  his  face 
when  I  asked  if  he  could  oblige  me  with  his 
views  upon  local  conditions? 

"My  views !  Impossible,  my  dear  sir.  Why, 
it  would  be  more  than  my  life's  worth.  There's 
many  a  poor  lad  in  these  parts  been  laid  under 
the  sod  for  less  than  that." 

"Perhaps  I  haven't  made  myself  clear? 
I'm " 

"I  don't  think  you  have." 

The  door  slammed.  And  there  was  an  end 
of  it. 

At  the  cross-roads  by  the  railway  bridge  a 
man  was  standing. 

"Good  morning  to  ye!" 

"Good  morning !" 

"Well,  things  are  bad  in  these  parts.  I  wish 
they'd  settle  down.  .  .  ." 

A  total  stranger !    A  native !   This  was  very 

93 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

odd.  It  was  my  turn  to  cut  the  conversation 
short,  and  I  did. 

At  the  Court-house,  Quarter  Sessions  were 
being  held.  Soldiers  and  R.I.C.  men  lounged 
without;  within,  the  little  court  was  packed. 
There  were  two  or  three  military  officers  and 
several  soldiers  and  R.I.C.  men,  and  at  the 
back  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  such  ragged 
and  neckerchiefed  vagabonds  as  may  only  be 
found  in  an  Irish  Court  of  Justice.  The  dock 
was  empty.  A  respectable-looking  countryman 
in  Sunday  clothes  was  confronting  from  the 
witness-box  a  Jorrocks-faced  judge.  A  law- 
yer in  wig  and  gown  with  a  most  pugnacious 
face  was  cross-examining  him  in  a  pungent 
brogue.  It  was  very  stuffy — and  very  dull.  I 
left  them  as  I  had  found  them,  wearily  hag- 
gling over  a  plot  of  grazing  land  said  to  have 
been  misdevised  in  a  dead  man's  will. 

A  polite  caretaker  made  me  welcome  to  the 
town  reading-room,  where  I  had  an  appoint- 
ment with  a  local  resident. 

"People  are  absolutely  quiet  here  if  they 
are  left  alone,"  the  latter  said.  And  in  the 

94 


LIFE    IN   MALLOW 

plain  but  comfortable  room  with  its  armchairs 
and  writing-table  and  newspapers  like  any  vil- 
lage club-room  in  England,  it  was  easily  pos- 
sible to  believe  him. 

"Everybody  knew  each  other  and  we  were 
all  the  best  of  friends,  as  you  might  have 
judged  for  yourself  if  you  had  come  in  here  of 
an  evening.  We  have  no  religious  differences. 
Politics  never  worried  us  much.  Tis  my  opin- 
ion that  people  want  a  change,  but  they  would 
be  content  with  Dominion  Home  Rule  or  any 
generous  measure  of  self-Government,  provid- 
ing it  brought  peace.  The  Government  of  Ire- 
land Act  is  no  use  because  it  won't  bring  peace. 
We  don't  want  an  Irish  army  or  navy,  and  we 
don't  want  separation  from  the  Empire." 

I  questioned  him  about  the  alleged  Sinn  Fein 
propaganda  in  the  schools. 

"I  don't  know  of  any,  though  the  Irish  lan- 
guage is  taught,  of  course." 

"What  started  the  war  here?" 

"The  trouble  began  on  September  28th  of 
last  year,  when  about  fifty  of  the  I.R.A.  at- 
tacked the  barracks.  Nearly  all  the  soldiers 
95 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

were  out  horse-watering.  The  first  I  knew 
of  anything  being  wrong  was  about  9.30.  I 
had  just  walked  down  to  the  office  from  my 
house  when  a  soldier  in  his  shirt-sleeves  came 
galloping  down  the  street  on  horseback. 
'Something's  wrong/  I  said  to  my  clerk,  but 
we  agreed  the  horse  had  run  away  with  him. 
Then  they  all  came  racing  back.  .  .  .  Soon 
after  we  knew :  the  sentry  had  been  shot  dead, 
four  hundred  rifles  had  been  taken,  and  car- 
ried off  in  motor-cars.  You  see,  they  were  not 
local  men.  They'd  come  from  a  distance. 
Since  then  we've  had  no  peace." 

The  notorious  affair  at  the  railway  station 
succeeded  the  killing  of  a  District-Inspector's 
wife  a  month  later. 

Eyes  follow  one  fearfully  rather  than 
angrily  in  Mallow. 

That  evening  I  turned  down  a  narrow  lane 
leading  off  the  main  street,  and  sought  out  the 
barracks.  They  were  a  smallish  grey  building 
at  the  end  of  the  lane  beyond  some  dingy-look- 
ing cottages.  On  the  farther  side  were  fields. 
96 


LIFE    IN    MALLOW 

I  was  surveying  these  environs  at  leisure, 
with  a  view  to  reconstructing  September's 
daring  coup,  when  a  voice  called  "Halt." 

Looking  up,  I  found  a  sentry's  bayonet  lev- 
elled at  me  from  a  sort  of  platform  which 
projected  from  the  barrack-wall  some  twenty 
feet  above  the  ground. 

At  the  same  moment  I  felt  a  tap  on  the 
shoulder,  and  turning  round  stood  face  to  face 
with  a  man  in  civilian  clothes. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Oh!— just  looking  round." 

"Kindly  accompany  me  to  the  police  bar- 
racks." 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

HE  was  a  plain-clothes  constable.  On  the 
way  to  the  police-barracks  we  had  a 
few  words. 

"What  did  you  want  to  see  at  the  barracks  ?" 

"A  man  was  telling  me  about  the  attack  in 
September.  I  thought  I'd  see  the  place  for 
myself." 

"Rather  a  curious  thing  to  do,  looking  about 
like  that,  wasn't  it?  Who  and  what  are  you, 
please?" 

Before  I  had  time  to  explain,  we  arrived  at 
the  police-barracks. 

In  a  bare,  comfortless  room  that  was  evi- 
dently used  as  a  mess-room,  six  or  seven  Black 
and  Tans  were  grouped  around  an  aged  Sinn 
Feiner,  who  was  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of 
words  in  a  perfectly  incomprehensible  ver- 
nacular. 

The  policemen  were  laughing.  They  ap- 
98 


SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

peared  to  be  "ragging"  the  old  man.  Their 
attention,  however,  was  immediately  trans- 
ferred to  myself. 

"I  found  this  man  looking-  round  the  bar- 
racks," was  my  introduction  to  the  sergeant- 
in-charge. 

I  bethought  me  of  the  pass  and  photograph 
in  my  pocket,  signed,  sealed,  and  delivered  by 
Dublin  Castle.  I  produced  it. 

"These  things  can  be  faked,"  was  the  dis- 
couraging comment  on  what  I  had  assumed  to 
be  a  short-cut  to  immediate  release.  And  when 
I  gave  as  my  raison  d'etre  a  desire  to  study  the 
Irish  Question  at  first-hand,  the  answer  was, 
"Oh!  we've  heard  all  that  before." 

I  then  realised  that  I  was  regarded  with  gen- 
uine suspicion.  My  captor  had  hitherto  been 
polite.  He  now  took  his  cue  from  the  attitude 
of  the  sergeant,  which  was  uncompromisingly 
hostile.  So  did  the  rest  of  the  company. 
Whether  I  was  suspected  of  being  an  emissary 
of  the  Republic,  Mr.  Michael  Collins,  or  Presi- 
dent de  Valera  himself,  seemed  an  open  ques- 
tion. »  »  . 

99 


A  JOURNEY    IN   IRELAND 

Meanwhile  a  couple  of  Black  and  Tans  went 
through  my  pockets,  the  rest  standing  curi- 
ously around.  My  notebook,  references,  news- 
paper cuttings,  purse,  etc.,  were  turned  out 
upon  the  table,  the  gentlemen  in  green  falling 
upon  them  like  dogs  upon  a  heap  of  bones. 
Each  article  was  examined  with  the  attention 
due  to  a  live  bomb,  especial  suspicion  attach- 
ing to  a  small,  ingenious,  and  peculiarly  harm- 
less folding  matchbox. 

My  interrogation  was  then  resumed,  and 
from  the  tone  of  it  I  could  judge  that  my  ex- 
planations were  by  no  means  to  be  taken  at 
their  face  value.  Was  I  telling  the  truth 
about  myself;  what  had  my  movements  been 
since  arriving  in  Ireland,  and  how  could  I  ex- 
plain my  suspicious  tactics  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  barracks  ? 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  Black  and  Tans 
came  across  to  the  window  where  we  were 
standing. 

"Look  at  these!" 

The  objects  referred  to  were  the  Sinn  Fein 
100 


SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

"pass"  and  the  typewritten  document  which 
Barry  Egan  had  handed  me  at  Cork. 

The  sergeant's  face  darkened.  "What's  the 
meaning  of  this?" 

The  District  Inspector  was  sent  for. 

"These  are  sedetious  documents,"  was  his 
comment. 

I  was  invited  to  write  my  name,  the  signa- 
ture being  disputed  letter  by  letter  and  com- 
pared with  that  on  the  Castle  pass. 

Meanwhile,  matter  not  altogether  compli- 
mentary to  the  Crown  Forces  had  been  ex- 
tracted from  my  notebook.  To  balance  this, 
a  small,  assertive  Black  and  Tan  with  a  Cock- 
ney accent  found  himself  able  to  corroborate 
certain  of  the  addresses  given. 

Somebody  else,  however,  had  made  a  dan- 
gerous discovery.  An  article  in  the  Illus- 
trated Sunday  Herald  on  Revolution!  The 
word  Herald  was  enough ! 

The  police  inspector  led  the  way  upstairs  to 

his   office.     Here   the   whole  process   began 

afresh.    The  same  questions  were  put,  all  the 

papers  once  more  examined.    This  time,  how- 

101 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

ever,  an  inventory  was  made  of  them.  The 
inspector  then  took  down  a  statement  of  my 
movements  and  intentions.  In  the  middle  of 
it  he  broke  off  and  went  to  the  telephone. 
These  ominous  words  came  from  the  adjoin- 
ing room: 

"I've  got  a  man  here  who  says  he's  come 
to  see  the  country  .  .  .  looks  very  suspi- 
cious." 

I  began  to  see  visions  of  days,  a  week  even, 
spent  in  Victoria  Barracks,  Cork. 

The  entertaining  feature  of  the  proceedings 
was  the  conduct  of  my  captor,  an  old  R.I.C. 
man  with  thirty  years'  service.  When  his  su- 
perior was  out  of  the  room  he  became  broth- 
erly, said  it  couldn't  be  helped,  "he  was  only 
doing  his  duty,"  etc.,  and  inquired  whether  I 
had  any  cigarettes.  Touched  by  this  unex- 
pected solicitude,  I  rashly  displayed  a  half -full 
cigarette  case.  He  promptly  seized  one  with  a 
"thank  you,"  but  without  further  formality. 
When  the  inspector  re-entered  the  room,  how- 
ever, his  demeanour  changed.  He  assumed  a 
constabular  attitude,  directed  a  severe  retribu- 
102 


SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

tive  glance  at  his  prisoner,  and  seemed  bent  on 
proving  that  the  said  prisoner  was  a  villain. 

The  taking  of  the  statement  had  not  been 
completed  when  an  officer  of  the  South  Staf- 
fordshire regiment  entered  the  room.  I  sym- 
pathised with  his  embarrassment ;  he  knew  not 
what  to  say  or  how  to  say  it. 

"Don't  you  know*  better  than  to  wander 
about  in  the  neighbourhood  of  barracks  ?"  was 
his  stern  inquiry.  I  protested  my  ignorance  of 
local  regulations — and  once  again  was  interro- 
gated as  to  identity  and  movements. 

It  so  happened  that  my  rucksack  had  been 
deposited  at  the  railway  station  cloak-room. 
This  fact  having  been  ascertained,  I  was  duly 
marched  up  by  my  plain-clothes  friend,  the 
remainder  of  my  goods  being  examined  on  the 
station  platform.  Nothing  compromising  hav- 
ing been  found,  we  returned  to  the  police-bar- 
racks, where  I  was  informed  that  I  should  be 
removed  to  G.H.Q.,  Buttevant. 

In  the  courtyard,  a  tender  stood  waiting, 
while  a  dozen  soldiers  in  fighting-order  were 
clambering  onto  a  lorry.  I  bade  farewell  to 

103 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

my  green  friends,  who  assured  me  again  that 
they  had  only  done  their  duty,  and  whom  I 
assured  in  the  same  sense. 

I  found  myself  sitting  between  the  driver 
and  a  young  officer,  the  escort  occupying  the 
body  of  the  car;  two  hundred  yards  behind 
came  the  lorry  with  its  armed  load.  The  drive 
that  followed  was  full  of  interest. 

It  was  growing  late.  We  careered  along  at 
thirty-five  miles  an  hour,  wide  stretches  of 
gorse  and  heather  falling  rapidly  behind,  a 
white  ribbon  of  road  ever  diminishing  in  front. 
The  sun  setting  behind  purple  mountains  and 
the  high  lights  of  far-off  hillsides  seemed  to 
lend  a  new  aspect  to  the  sorrows  and  the 
beauty  of  the  land.  Every  two  or  three  miles, 
patches  of  loose  road  material  or  boulders 
lying  by  the  roadside  proclaimed  where  no  long 
while  before  an  ambush  had  been  prepared  or 
had  taken  place.  The  men  behind  talked  as 
they  had  been  accustomed  to  talk  in  a  greater 
war.  "Do  you  remember  such-and-such  an 
ambush?"  When  we  came  to  corners,  the  offi- 
cer grasped  his  revolver  tightly,  and  every 

104 


SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

now  and  then  looked  back  to  see  whether  the 
lorry  was  keeping  its  proper  distance.  Once 
or  twice  we  met  parties  of  civilians,  and  when 
this  happened  the  rifles  were  raised;  once  or 
twice  women  and  children  gathering  flowers. 

Late  in  the  evening  we  drove  up  a  broad 
sloping  street  between  grey  stone  houses  to 
the  gates  of  some  large  barracks.  The  place 
reminded  one  of  Princetown  or  Dartmoor  in 
its  orderliness  and  bleakness. 

There  was  much  shouting  and  hooting  at 
the  gates  before  they  were  thrown  open  and 
we  drew  up  in  front  of  a  wired-in  compound 
on  the  barrack-square. 

The  officer  on  duty  appeared. 

"Hullo!    What's  it  all  about?" 

My  custodian  descended  and  the  two  officers 
held  a  brief  conversation  while  I  was  left 
standing  with  the  guard. 

Finally  the  Intelligence  Officer  was  sent  for 
from  his  dinner. 

"Come  along  to  my  office,  please !" 

My  papers  were  examined,  I  was  asked  half 
a  dozen  questions  and  invited  to  tell  everything 

105 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

about  myself.  My  interrogator  then  an- 
nounced that  he  was  satisfied  as  to  my  iden- 
tity, dryly  adding  that  he  did  not  think  I  quite 
realised  where  I  was. 

I  was  thereupon  hospitably  entertained  at 
dinner  by  the  Staff  of  the  Kerry  Infantry  Bri- 
gade and  heard  (from  the  lips  of  the  Colonel- 
Commandant)  something  of  conditions  of 
service  in  Ireland. 

"People  in  England,"  he  said,  "don't  seem 
to  realise  what  things  are  like  over  here — or 
else  they  don't  care.  Most  of  the  newspapers 
damn  us  or  take  sides  with  the  other  people. 
You've  seen  for  yourself  the  conditions  we  get 
about  under.  We  can't  go  outside  barracks 
without  the  risk  of  being  shot  in  the  back.  We 
can't  go  out  walking  or  out  shooting.  Only  the 
other  day  one  of  my  boys  went  over  to  a  place 
five  miles  away  on  a  motor-bike  and  has  not 
been  heard  of  since." 

"Straightforward  fighting  is  our  job,  but 
this  sort  of  thing !"  put  in  someone  else. 

"They  talk  about  'patriots'  in  England," 
said  a  major,  wearing  the  D.S.O.  ribbon.  "Pa- 
106 


SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

triots!  Why,  fighting  the  I.R.A.  is  fighting 
assassins.  It's  low,  cowardly  cunning  they 
excel  at.  I  tell  you  straight,  I'd  sooner  do 
another  two-and-a-half  years  in  France  than 
the  same  length  of  time  here." 

"They  prepare  these  ambushes,"  remarked 
the  Intelligence  Officer,  "lie  in  wait  for  you, 
fire  a  volley  as  you  pass — they  always  risk 
everything  on  the  first  effort — then  run  for 
their  lives.  The  only  thing  to  be  said  for  them 
is  that  they're  such  rotten  bad  shots." 

"Yes,  it's  a  rum  kind  of  war,"  said  the  Com- 
mandant. "I  often  receive  deputations  from 
aggrieved  Sinn  Feiners  who  are  suffering 
financially  through  the  roads  being  blocked 
and  bridges  destroyed  by  their  own  kith  and 
kin.  The  fact  is  they  are  intimidated  by  their 
gunmen  to  destroy  the  roads,  and  then  ask 
us  to  put  a  guard  over  them  while  I  repair 
them!" 

This  provoked  laughter,  but  the  conversa- 
tion soon  became  serious  again. 

"How  can  you  expect  anything  but  repri- 
sals," the  D.S.O.  major  urged,  "when  our  pals 

107 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

and  our  men's  pals  are  killed  like  this?  If 
somebody  you  were  very  fond  of  was  mur- 
dered— murdered,  mind  you!  in  cold  blood — 
wouldn't  you  'see  red'  ?" 

"No  house  is  burnt  down  except  in  reprisal 
for  an  outrage,  and  then  the  house  of  a  notori- 
ous local  Shinner  is  chosen,"  added  the  Colonel- 
Commandant. 

"We  English  are  incapable  of  hating,"  an- 
other officer  declared. 

" even  Germans,"  suggested  another. 

"Don't  you  remember  how  in  the  war  one  used 
to  see  the  Tommies  handing  cigarettes  through 
the  barbed-wire  cages  to  men  who'd  been  try- 
ing all  they  knew  to  kill  them  an  hour  or  two 
before.  Well,  it's  the  same  here.  You  see  our 
men  actually  offering  cigarettes  to  these  swine 
who  shoot  'em  in  the  back  whenever  they  get 
an  opportunity.  That's  your  English  Tommy 
all  over." 

"And  the  worst  of  it  all  is,  I've  only  had  one 
leave  since  August,"  lamented  a  young  subal- 
tern in  the  background. 


108 


SOLDIERS  AND  THE  BLACK  AND  TANS 

This  conversation  had  a  curious  because 
immediate  sequel. 

As  I  crossed  the  barrack  square,  a  free  man, 
I  met  the  officer  on  duty.  He  said: 

"A  young  soldier  in  the  East  Lancashires  * 
has  just  been  done  in  on  the  road  between  here 
and  Churchtown.  They  shot  him  in  the  jaw 
but  didn't  kill  him,  so  they  turned  him  over 
and  shot  him  in  the  back.  .  .  .  You  may  as 
well  see  for  yourself." 

He  led  the  way  to  a  building  near  the  bar- 
rack gates. 

It  was  as  he  had  said. 

*  Private  Fielding,  murdered,  April  26th. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

KILMALLOCK   TO   LIMERICK 

FROM  a  window  overlooking  the  barrack 
gates  at  Buttevant  Sinn  Fein  prisoners 
could  be  seen  washing  themselves  in  the  early 
morning. 

They  were  penned  up  in  a  sort  of  compound. 
One  by  one  they  came  out  of  their  wooden  hut, 
blinking  in  the  sunshine,  while  a  lackadaisical 
sentry  watched  over  them  from  a  platform 
similar  to  that  which  had  led  to  my  undoing 
at  Mallow. 

The  night  had  not  passed  undisturbed.  In 
the  smallest  hours  I  was  awakened  by  a  loud 
and  violent  knocking,  and  the  summons  of  two 
or  three  stentorian  Irish  voices.  "Open  the 
door !  Open  the  door !" 

The  last  event  of  the  day  had  not  been  cal- 
culated to  steady  the  nerves.  My  heart  beat 
faster  and  unpleasant  recollections  began  to 
no 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

crowd  upon  me  until  I  remembered  there  was 
no  curfew  in  Buttevant. 

At  7.30  a.m.  a  curious  little  procession 
passed  out  of  the  barrack  gates. 

First  came  a  G.S.  wagon  in  which  reposed 
a  sort  of  box  covered  with  some  material  like 
sacking.  There  followed  four  Sinn  Fein  pris- 
oners walking  slowly  two  by  two,  a  file  of  sol- 
diers with  fixed  bayonets  on  either  side  of 
them.  An  officer  and  escort  brought  up  the 
rear. 

That  morning,  the  27th,  I  caught  the  9.13 
train  to  Kilmallock.  Having  been  fortuitously 
conveyed  some  distance  out  of  my  original 
course,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  best  to  leave  this  part  of  the  country  and 
bear  to  the  West,  where  things  were  reported 
to  be  "waking  up." 

The  train  was  crowded,  about  half  its  occu- 
pants being  soldiers  and  Black  and  Tans.  The 
majority  of  these  descended  at  Charleville 
Junction.  Here  the  first  person  to  catch  my 
eye  on  the  crowded  platform  was  Mr.  X.  of 
Cork. 

in 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

There  he  was,  smoking  a  cigarette  with  his 
usual  air  of  insolent  self-possession.  A  look 
of  unresponsive  recognition  passed  between 
us.  ... 

Kilmallock  is  a  long,  straggling  village  of 
grey  and  white  houses.  Here  Eamon  de  Va- 
lera,  son  of  a  Spanish  father  and  an  Irish 
mother,  passed  his  earliest  years.  One  who 
remembers  him  at  this  time  describes  him  as  a 
studious,  clever  boy  of  rather  wild  appearance, 
attending  the  Charleville  Christian  Brothers' 
School.  He  afterwards  went  on  to  take  high 
honours  at  the  National  University,  just  fail- 
ing to  secure  a  fellowship  at  Trinity  College. 
It  was  during  this  period  doubtless  that  he  first 
came  under  Sinn  Fein  influence.  Subsequently 
he  became  a  school-teacher. 

"Down  with  Sinn  Fein !  Up  England !"  was 
the  inscription  which  greeted  one  on  the  walls 
of  a  gutted  building  at  the  entrance  to  the  vil- 
lage. A  little  farther  on  were  two  more  build- 
ings of  which  only  the  walls  stood. 

My  call  was  upon  a  brewer  of  the  district. 

"I  only  came  here  a  year  ago,"  he  said. 
112 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

"The  very  evening  of  the  day  we  got  in  this 
affair  happened  at  the  police  barracks  opposite. 
I  was  tired  after  moving  furniture  all  day,  and 
went  to  bed  early,  but  we  were  soon  awakened 
by  the  noise  of  the  firing.  Bombs  were  ex- 
ploding, Very  lights  were  going  up.  We  looked 
out  and  saw  the  Sinn  Feiners  had  surrounded 
the  barracks.  We  could  see  them  running  to 
and  fro,  and  when  morning  broke  the  police 
were  shot  at  as  they  came  out.  It  was  an  awful 
night.  A  month  later  the  police  came  back  and 
burnt  the  houses  on  either  side  of  the  barracks 
— because,  they  said,  there  had  been  firing 
from  them — and  the  People's  Hall." 

"What  is  the  general  state  of  feeling  in  the 
district?" 

"The  people  only  want  to  settle  down.  You 
cannot  gauge  the  real  state  of  feeling  by  the 
actions  of  the  I.R.A.  They  only  represent  a 
section  of  the  people.  There  was  a  time,  of 
course,  when  the  lads  were  willing  enough  to 
join,  but  now  most  of  the  ardent  spirits  have 
been  killed  or  rounded  up,  and  the  country  boys 

have  to  be  roped  in.    I  can  remember  a  time, 
lid 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

though,  when  they  used  to  drill  openly,  in 
broad  daylight,  in  Co.  Limerick,  under  the  in- 
struction of  ex-soldiers.  That's  a  funny  thing 
now — some  of  the  hottest  Sinn  Feiners  are  ex- 
soldiers." 

"The  people  generally  would  be  glad  of  peace 
on  almost  any  terms,  though?" 

"They'd  be  content  with  a  fair  measure  of 
Home  Rule — yes,  Dominion  Home  Rule.  We 
have  no  quarrel  with  England,  except  that  you 
don't  understand  us,  and  never  have.  Tem- 
peramentally, the  English  and  the  Irish  are 
poles  apart." 

"Do  you  think  much  mischief  is  made  in  the 
schools?" 

"Sinn  Fein  propaganda,  you  mean?  No. 
Only,  of  course,  the  Irish  language  is  taught." 

"Economic  ties  are  very  strong  between  the 
two  countries?" 

"Up  to  a  point — yes.  Ireland  is  one  of  Eng- 
land's best  customers  for  wines,  motor-cars, 
and  agricultural  machinery.  England  is  Ire- 
land's natural  market  for  eggs  and  poultry, 
butter,  cattle,  and  tobacco.  Still,  I  wouldn't 

114 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

agree  that  Ireland's  trade  necessarily  depends 
on  England.  There  are  other  markets  open — 
for  linen  and  tobacco,  for  instance." 

"People  did  very  well  round  here  during  the 
war,  I  suppose?" 

"We  have  the  finest  grazing  land  in  Ireland 
about  here  outside  Meath.  Farmers  reaped  a 
rich  harvest,  but  now  they're  beginning  to  real- 
ise that  a  slump  is  ahead.  You  ought  to  go 
and  see  the  creamery  down  the  street." 

I  followed  his  advice.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
village  the  creamery  was  working  at  full  pres- 
sure, an  elderly  woman  churning  butter,  a 
young  one  hand-skimming,  and  a  man  operat- 
ing the  machinery.  Tipped  into  a  tank  from 
the  milk-cans,  the  milk  was  carried  through 
to  the  separator,  and  thence  to  the  churn, 
which  made  its  butter  in  half  an  hour.  One 
of  the  most  delectable  sights  I  have  ever  seen 
was,  on  the  far  side  of  the  separator,  a  large 
tank  nearly  full  of  thick,  yellow  cream. 

I  thought  of  the  creamery  at  Mallow.  .  .  . 

In  the  train  to  Limerick  I  fell  into  conversa- 
115 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

tion  with  a  Buttevant  commercial  traveller 
who  was  full  of  woes.  On  his  knee  lay  a  little 
pocket-book  in  which  he  had  been  making  up 
his  accounts  for  the  week. 

"It  costs  me  £8  a  week  travelling,"  he  said 
"I  earn  £3  a  week.  So  I'm  shutting  up  shop. 
The  retailers  won't  buy  because  the  public 
won't.  Down  in  Tralee  I  haven't  placed  a  sin- 
gle order  worth  the  name.  Houses  and  shops 
are  constantly  raided.  Nobody  knows  what's 
going  to  happen  next.  So  nobody  will  lay  in 
stocks." 

"What  about  the  boycott?" 

"I  don't  complain  of  reprisals  on  Catholics 
who  deal  with  bigoted  Belfast  Protestants. 
But  there  you  are — Ireland's  no  longer  a  de- 
cent country  for  people  to  earn  a  living  in." 

Limerick  lay  under  dust.  It  was  hot.  One 
found  a  baking  station-yard  and  a  long, 
straight  main  street  suggestive  of  a  Canadian 
prairie  town.  How  ugly  this  place  is,  and  how 
shadelessl  And  then  you  discover  that  the 
main  thoroughfare,  O'Connell  Street,  is  known 
to  the  inhabitants  as  "George  Street,"  and 
116 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

that  there  is  another  George  Street  just  round 
the  corner ! 

The  abiding  impression  of  Limerick  was  of 
the  soldiers  wandering  through  the  streets  in 
their  curious  patrol  formation.  A  line  of  six 
men  of  the  Oxon  and  Bucks  Light  Infantry  in 
fighting  order  with  arms  at  the  trail  came  first, 
followed  by  a  file  on  opposite  sides  of  the  street, 
then  the  officer  and  his  n.c.o.  in  the  centre  of 
the  roadway,  another  file  of  men  and  another 
line.  They  advanced  in  a  leisurely  manner,  the 
officer  occasionally  pulling  up  somebody  cross- 
ing the  road  and  questioning  him.  This  spec- 
tacle might  be  seen  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 

As  to  the  lorry-loads  of  Black  and  Tans  and 
the  armoured  cars,  they  were  as  numerous  as 
in  Dublin.  And  with  what  a  clatter,  with  what 
a  whirl  of  dust  they  careered  along  that  arid 
main  street  on  their  way  to  or  from  the  bar- 
racks !  The  old-fashioned  Cruise's  Hotel  near 
the  Town  Hall  had  been  taken  over  as  a  tem- 
porary police  barracks,  so  had  a  large  building 
in  Cecil  Street,  outside  which  Black  and  Tans 

lounged  and  smoked. 

117 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

The  first  Limerick  citizen  I  talked  to  was  a 
journalist,  who  offered  the  maxim :  "Soft  soap 
for  Irishmen !" 

He  meant  tact. 

He  dwelt,  as  so  many  had  done,  upon  that 
which  is,  indeed,  self-evident  to  any  traveller 
— the  temperamental  difference  between  Eng- 
lishman and  Irishman. 

"And  yet  your  educated  Irishman  is-the  most 
tolerant  person  in  the  world/'  he  declared.  "He 
remembers  only  to  forget." 

As  an  instance  of  this  he  told  the  story  of  an 
old  Dublin  woman  who,  crossing  O'Connell 
Bridge  soon  after  the  Easter  Rebellion,  met  a 
British  officer. 

"  Well,'  said  she,  'you >  you  ought 

to  be  chucked  in  the  Liffey  an'  left  to  drown, 
you  ought/ 

"  'And  if  he  was,  you  know  you'd  be  the 
first  to  jump  in  and  pull  him  out!'  shouted  a 
passer-by. 

"That's  us  all  over!  But  we  do  want  tact- 
ful handling.  It's  no  good  trying  to  ride  rough- 
shod over  an  Irishman." 

118 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

He  proceeded  to  describe  how,  standing  in  a 
corridor  of  the  barracks  one  day,  he  had  seen 
a  Black  and  Tan  strike  an  Irish  prisoner  in 
the  face. 

"That  man  never  flinched  and  he  never  said 
a  word.  He  was  only  a  common  man,  but  he 
bore  himself  with  the  dignity  of  a  king." 

My  informant  appeared  deeply  impressed  by 
the  recollection. 

"But  even  things  like  that,"  he  urged,  "and 
the  murder  of  our  Mayors  will  be  forgotten 
if  you  treat  us  generously  now." 

He  harked  back  to  1914,  when  Lord  Wim- 
borne  had  entered  Limerick  to  the  strains  of 
"God  Save  the  King/'  amid  the  acclamations 
of  the  populace.  He  told  of  how  Sinn  Feiners 
who  tried  to  start  a  counter-demonstration 
with  "God  Save  Ireland"  had  had  to  be  es- 
corted down  a  side-street  by  the  police. 

"The  people  were  mad  for  the  war  then," 
said  he.  "The  Government  could  have  done 
anything  with  'em.  Now — you  see!" 

"What  actually  brought  about  the  trans- 
formation?" 

119 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

"Failure  to  operate  the  Act  of  1912  and  dis- 
couragement of  recruiting.  Religion  and  edu- 
cation have  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Lord 
Fitzalan  will  be  neither  popular  nor  otherwise, 
because  he  is  a  Roman  Catholic.  Balfour  and 
Birrefl  were  the  best  Chief  Secretaries  we  ever 
had." 

The  economic  history  of  Limerick  was  that 
of  the  majority  of  Irish  towns  in  1921 — you 
could  read  it  in  the  look  of  the  place.  Trade 
bad,  nobody  buying,  no  ships  coming  up  the 
river — that  was  the  tale;  and  there  was  not 
a  ship  to  be  seen  along  the  quays.  Bacon- 
curing  is  the  staple  industry,  but  it  is  fair  to 
add  progressive  decay  had  set  in  before  the 
war.  Limerick  lacks  energy,  lacks  healthy 
vitality. 

And  even  while  we  talked  in  the  hotel  smok- 
ing-room a  revolver  shot,  followed  by  two  rifle 
shots,  cracked  out  in  the  street.  I  went  to  the 
door.  My  companion  smiled. 

"It's  down  Carey  Street  in  the  Curfew  area, 
I  expect." 

People  were  standing  on  their  doorsteps 
120 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

looking  towards  the  railway  station.  I  walked 
to  the  corner.  The  words  "No  peace  with 
England !"  scrawled  on  a  blank  wall  stared  me 
in  the  face.  To  the  left  of  the  station  the 
street  was  noisy  with  gossiping  women  and 
sprawling  children;  to  the  right  it  stretched 
broad  and  straight  and  silent — empty.  The 
station  clock  said  7.15. 

At  dinner  that  evening  in  the  hotel  dining- 
room,  a  party  of  four  persons  sat  down  at  a 
table  near.  They  consisted  of  a  father  with 
a  flowing  dark  beard,  who  wore  his  hat 
throughout  the  meal,  of  a  stalwart  son,  and 
of  two  good-looking  daughters.  All  were  very 
dark,  with  aquiline  features  and  a  Latin  grace 
of  manner  and  expression.  It  was  their  ges- 
tures, however,  their  unceasing  flow  of  merri- 
ment and  joie  de  vivre  which  impressed  one. 
The  girls  and  the  boy  never  ceased  to  jest,  the 
father  ate  solemnly,  making  a  remark  about 
once  in  five  minutes  which  set  the  whole  table 
laughing. 

Through  this  pantomimic  group — for  their 
remarks  could  not  be  heard — was  borne  in 

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A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

upon  one  a  sense  of  that  temperamental  differ- 
ence which  had  been  so  frequently  alluded  to 
by  Irishmen.  The  group  might  have  belonged 
to  Paris,  to  Madrid,  to  Rome  even — never  to 
London. 

Later  I  made  my  way  to  the  northern  out- 
skirts of  the  city  and  called  upon  the  Protestant 
Dean  of  Limerick.  A  slender,  silvery-haired 
man  greeted  me. 

"There  is  not  much  real  poverty  here,  ex- 
cept through  unemployment,"  he  answered  in 
response  to  a  question.  "People  grew  very 
well  off  during  the  war.  Bank  balances  in 
many  cases  are  three  times  what  they  were 
before  the  war.  Most  people  would  be  glad 
to  keep  outside  politics  if  they  were  allowed 
to.  Personally  I  am  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
all  the  farmers  about  here,  Sinn  Feiners, 
Nationalists,  or  what-not." 

"You  think  a  peace  could  be  patched  up, 
and  that  the  country  is  not  entirely  for  sepa- 
ration ?" 

"Where  there's  right — and  wrong — on  both 
sides,  each  must  give  away  something.  An 
122 


KILMALLOCK   TO    LIMERICK 

old  farmer  said  to  me  the  other  day,  'When 
a  man  goes  to  the  fair,  you  know  he  asks 

more  for  a  horse  than  he  Expects  to  get ' 

and  laughed." 

"A  settlement  is  possible,  then?" 

The  Dean  nodded. 

"Is  hatred  of  England  taught  in  the 
schools?" 

He  considered  a  moment. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  I'm  afraid  it  is.  And  that 
is  at  the  root  of  all  the  trouble.* 

"And  religious  differences?" 

"There  are  none.  Please  disabuse  yourself 
of  that  idea.  I  personally  am  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  all  my  colleagues.  There  is  per- 
fect accord  between  Protestants  and  Roman 
Catholics." 

"Are  the  women  interested  in  politics?" 

"As  much  as  if  not  more  so  than  the  men. 
It's  difficult  to  say  why." 

Dean  Hackett  returned  repeatedly  to  the 
necessity  of  doing  everything  possible  to  pro- 
mote peace. 

"Don't  say  or  write  anything  calculated  to 

123 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

make  things  worse,"  he  adjured.  "The  trou- 
ble with  us  is  that  we  are  always  looking  back, 
always  harping  on  the  Penal  Laws  or  the  Re- 
bellion of  '98,  always  harking  back  to  the  bit- 
terness of  three  hundred  years  ago.  We  must 
'cast  the  cup  from  us'  and  look  forward." 

As  I  walked  back  to  Limerick  that  evening 
the  brooding  quality  of  the  place  impressed 
itself  upon  me. 

Soldiers  and  girls  were  strolling  arm-in-arm 
under  the  new-flowering  lilacs  and  chestnuts, 
white-clad  young  men  and  women  were  play- 
ing lawn-tennis  in  gardens,  old  men  were 
smoking  and  talking  on  the  veranda  of  a  club 
that  overlooks  the  river.  Somewhere  near  a 
military  band  was  playing,  and  I  found  it 
eventually  huddled  away  in  a  yard  up  an  al- 
ley, as  though  ashamed  of  its  tentative  efforts 
at  gaiety,  of  which  nobody  took  any  notice 
except  a  sentry.  At  either  end  of  the  Sars- 
field  and  Thomond  Bridges  picquets  of  soldiers 
with  fixed  bayonets  were  posted.  The  broad 
sweep  of  the  river  was  veiled  in  misty  grey, 
124 


KILMALLOCK    TO    LIMERICK 

through  which  a  church  spire  above  roof-tops 
and  one  or  two  lights  vaguely  showed.  Groups 
of  men  lounged  about  the  quays,  and  the  last 
embers  of  a  sultry  sunset  touched  the  windows 
of  some  Georgian  houses  on  the  farther  bank. 

Crossing  the  bridge  into  Sarsfield  Street,  I 
noticed  on  the  right-hand  side  a  small  green- 
shuttered  house,  over  the  doorway  of  which 
were  two  rudely-painted  shamrocks  above  a 
skull  and  cross-bones.  Beneath  the  latter  ap- 
peared these  strange  words: 

"And  anti-Christ  still  alive  at  4  a.m.?  .  .  . 
And  shooting  now?" 

In  Glentworth  Street,  which  leads  up  to  the 
railway  station,  I  once  more  came  face  to  face 
with  Mr.  X. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TALKS   IN   LIMERICK 

IN  Limerick  I  met  Dr.  Sandeman,  of  Zurich, 
a  distinguished  Swiss  publicist  then  on  a 
special  mission  to  study  the  situation  in  Ire- 
land as  representative  of  a  syndicate  of  Swiss, 
Austrian,  Czecho-Slovakian,  Polish,  and  Bo- 
hemian newspapers.  The  meeting  was  espe- 
cially interesting  in  view  of  Liamon  de  Roiste's 
hint  of  a  possible  settlement  on  Swiss  Federal 
lines. 

Dr.  Sandeman's  general  conclusions  after  a 
fortnight's  sojourn  in  the  South  as  the  guest 
of  both  sides  may  be  summarised  as  follows: 

"You  must  give  Ireland  Dominion  Home 
Rule. 

"Your  Government  is  not  trusted,  therefore 
you  must  give  an  earnest  of  your  good  inten- 
tions by  withdrawing  the  irregulars.  I  find 
that  they  are  everywhere  condemned. 

126 


TALKS    IN   LIMERICK 

"Fiscal  autonomy  and  foreign  relations 
should  rest  with  Ireland;  the  garrison  and 
control  of  the  ports  might  remain  with  Eng- 
land. But  have  you  anything  really  to  fear 
from  such  a  little  country  as  this?  Is  not 
she  bound  to  you  by  natural  and  economic 
ties?" 

Questioned  as  to  the  amount  of  interest 
taken  in  the  Irish  question  by  the  Central  Eu- 
ropean peoples,  Dr.  Sandeman  declared  this 
was  considerable. 

He  supplied  the  following  information  re- 
garding his  own  country: 

COMPARATIVE  POPULATIONS 
Switzerland  Ireland 

3,937,000  4,390,219 

(Census,  July  1st,  1916)    (,Census,  April  2nd,  1911) 

COMPARATIVE  TOTAL  AREA 
15,951  square  miles  32,531  square  miles 

"My  country  is  divided  into  twenty-two  Can- 
tons; Ireland  has  thirty-two  Counties  of  very 
similar  size. 

"The  Cantons  themselves  are  not  'divisions/ 

127 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

but  sovereign  States  which  have  formed  an 
alliance  for  certain  purposes.  Each  has  com- 
plete autonomy  except  on  foreign  politics,  de- 
cision of  peace  and  war,  post  and  telegraph, 
and  certain  State  assurances  which  remain 
with  the  State  Legislature.  Each  Canton  dif- 
fers from  the  other  in  nearly  every  point,  i.e., 
religious,  political,  social,  industrial,  physical, 
linguistic,  yet  forms  a  nation  the  patriotism 
of  whose  members  is  proverbial. 

"Each  of  the  twenty-two  Cantons  is  divided 
into  'administrative  districts,'  each  ruled  by  a 
prefect  in  the  French  manner,  appointed  by 
the  Cantonal  Authorities.  Each  Canton,  again, 
has  its  own  legislature,  executive  and  judici- 
ary. The  legislature  of  the  Canton  is  com- 
posed of  representatives  chosen  by  Cantonal 
voters  in  proportion,  and  is  thus  a  local  parlia- 
ment rather  than  a  county  council.  All  Can- 
tons have  the  referendum  and  initiative  by 
which  electors  can  exercise  control  over  their 
representatives.  Twenty  thousand  signatures 
are  required  to  obtain  the  referendum. 

"There  are  two  Houses  —  a  Senate  and  a 

128 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

Chamber  of  Deputies.  Two  Senators  sit  for 
each  Canton  and  one  Deputy  for  each  twenty 
thousand  inhabitants,  so  that  Zugg  has  one 
Deputy  and  Berne  twenty. 

"We  have  in  our  country,  as  you  know,  a 
Militia  based  on  compulsory  service." 

One  of  the  most  temperate  and  broad- 
minded  men  I  came  across  in  the  South  was 
Mr.  S.  O'Mara,  a  big  Limerick  bacon  manufac- 
turer. Of  him  it  was  said  by  a  British  officer, 
"If  all  Sinn  Feiners  were  like  O'Mara,  this 
Irish  question  would  soon  be  settled." 

Mr.  O'Mara,  senior,  indeed,  belongs  to  the 
old  school,  though  there  is  reason  to  believe 
that  his  views  represent  a  large  measure  of 
opinion  in  the  South  and  West.  He  is  an  ex- 
Mayor  of  Limerick,  and  his  son  is  the  present 
Mayor.  It  was  of  this  son  he  first  spoke,  intro- 
ducing an  episode  very  characteristic  of  Ire- 
land in  1921. 

"Before  we  discuss  the  Irish  question  I 
must  tell  you  that  my  son  has  been  arrested 
this  morning  by  the  military  and  committed  to 

129 


A   JOURNEY    IN   IRELAND 

prison  for  one  week.  The  charge  against  him, 
I  understand,  is  of  not  complying  with  the 
orders  of  the  officer  commanding  here." 

These  words  were  spoken  with  dignity  and 
restraint,  though  it  was  possible  to  perceive 
that  the  ex-Mayor  felt  the  matter  keenly. 

Preliminary  questions  led  him  to  say: 

"The  majority  in  Ireland  would  prefer  com- 
plete separation,  but  would  accept  a  liberal 
measure  of  Home  Rule  for  the  sake  of  peace. 
We  must  have: 

"(1)  Ulster  in  a  Dublin  Parliament. 

"(2)  Complete  fiscal  autonomy. 

"(3)  Full  control  of  police  and  full  author- 
ity, military  and  otherwise. 

"If  the  proposed  'Dominion  Home  Rule'  in- 
cluded these  provisions,  then  there  is  a  very 
fair  chance  of  its  being  accepted  by  Ireland." 

"But  the  British  garrison,  and  control  of  the 
ports?" 

"These  must  go." 

"And  foreign  relations — peace  and  war?" 

"A  power  of  decision  equal  to  that  of  the 
other  Dominions." 

130 


TALKS    IN   LIMERICK 

"May  I  ask  how  you  propose  to  bring  Ulster 
into  a  Southern  Parliament?  I  understand  she 
is  adamant  on  the  question." 

"If  Ulster  and  the  Southern  leaders  were 
brought  together  they  could  thresh  out  a  set- 
tlement among  themselves.  This  is  an  Irish 
question.  England  must  not  interfere.  Once 
get  Ulster  into  a  Dublin  Parliament  under 
safeguards  and  she  would  work  harmoniously 
for  a  united  Ireland." 

"Don't  you  think  the  Government  of  Ireland 
Act  through  the  Council  of  Ireland  offers  ma- 
chinery for  a  permanent  settlement?" 

"No  interest  is  taken  in  the  Partition  Act 
here  because  it  divides  the  country,  because 
that  division  would  become  accentuated  instead 
of  the  reverse,  and  because  it  would  express 
itself  through  the  boycott  of  Belfast,  as  at 
present,  and  by  means  of  retaliation  between 
Protestant  and  Catholic." 

"In  your  opinion  are  the  Irish  people  hostile 
to  England,  or  only  to  the  British  Govern- 
ment?" 

"At  present  Ireland  is  hostile  to  England. 

131 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

But  the  Irish  people  are  generous  and  forget 
their  wrongs  very  quickly." 

"Are  a  majority  behind  the  militant  move- 
ment, then — I  mean  the  policy  of  the  I.R.A. — 
or  is  this  tacitly  or  compulsorily  supported?" 

"It  is  tacitly  supported — or  put  it  stronger." 

"You  must  remember,"  Mr.  O'Mara  added, 
in  words  almost  identical  with  those  I  had 
heard  in  Cork,  "you  must  remember,  National- 
ists have  become  Sinn  Feiners,  Unionists  Na- 
tionalists." 

"Are  Bolshevik  or  foreign  influences  behind 
Sinn  Fein?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"Or  anti  -  English  propaganda  in  the 
schools  ?" 

"Nonsense." 

"What  has  contributed  most  to  bring  about 
the  volte  face  from  the  war  enthusiasm  of  1914 
to  the  present  state  of  affairs  ?" 

"The  bad  faith  and  methods  of  the  British 
^Government." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  hold  a  very  high  opin- 

132 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

ion  of  Mr.  Lloyd  George  and  Sir  Hamar 
Greenwood?" 

"Lloyd  George  is  a  trickster;  Greenwood's 
a  rare  fraud." 

"Who  do  you  consider  the  best  administra- 
tors Ireland  has  had  in  your  time?" 

"Lord  Carnarvon  was  the  best  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant we  have  had;  Morley  and  George 
Wyndham  were  the  best  Chief  Secretaries. 
Balfour  was  very  ruthless,  but  he  passed  some 
good  measures  for  Ireland." 

"Looking  back  at  the  1916  Rebellion,  what 
good  do  you  think  it  did  your  country?" 

"The  Easter  Rebellion  was  condemned  as  a 
useless  waste  of  life  by  many  Irishmen.  It 
raised  the  cry  of  'England's  tyranny'  cer- 
tainly ;  it  gave  the  impetus  to  violence.  But  it 
was  the  executions  afterwards  that  left  a 
rankling  bitterness." 

"In  fact,  it  was  a  mistake  because  it  was  a 
failure?" 

"No.  The  rising  of  1916  gave  a  new  soul  to 
Ireland;  she  found  her  soul  that  day." 

"You  have  given  me  your  opinion  as  to  the 

133 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

terms  upon  which  peace  can  be  secured. 
What  are  the  first  steps  to  be  taken  towards 
realising  it  ?" 

"The  first  step  to  peace  is  the  removal  of 
the  Irregular  Forces  of  the  Crown;  the  sec- 
ond, a  definite  offer  by  the  British  Govern- 
ment." 

"Would  it  be  a  lasting  peace  or  would  the 
cry  for  a  Republic  break  out  again  in  a  few 
years'  time?" 

"Given  the  conditions  which  I  have  outlined, 
Ireland  can  be  counted  on  as  a  loyal  friend. 
England,  you  must  bear  in  mind,  is  our  natural 
market  for  eggs,  butter,  bacon,  cattle,  and 
linen.  We  might  find  other  markets  for  our- 
selves, but  England  is  the  natural  one  and 
always  will  be." 

When  I  reached  the  Town  Hall  I  found  the 
atmosphere  disturbed.  Only  the  Town  Clerk 
himself  —  an  exuberant  Irishman  —  seemed 
happy. 

"You've  heard  about  our  Mayor?"  he  que- 
ried. 

134 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

I  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and  was  told 
that  the  Deputy-Mayor  and  Corporation  were 
even  then  in  Council  assembled,  but  would  be 
pleased  to  receive  me  in  a  few  minutes. 

Meanwhile  several  citizens  of  Limerick 
dropped  in — a  local  journalist  who  said  that  it 
was  "a  bad  day  for  Ireland  when  the  shoot- 
ings began,"  and  a  banker  who  announced  that 
"Ireland  does  not  want  violence  or  complete 
separation.  They  are  forced  on  her." 

Incidentally,  I  came  across  the  "Scheme  for 
Scholarships  from  Primary  to  Secondary 
Schools  in  County  Limerick,"  issued  by  the 
Limerick  County  Council.  The  following  ex- 
tracts seemed  to  throw  some  light  on  a  matter 
about  which  equal  authorities  had  flatly  con- 
tradicted one  another :  * 

*Too  much  importance  must  not  be  attached  to  the  tone 
and  apparent  significance  of  this  Scheme  which  required  the 
approval  of,  and  doubtless  had  been  approved  by,  that  great 
Department  of  State  affectionately  known  in  Ireland  as  "The 
Department,"  or  the  "D.A.T.I.,"  and  officially  as  the  Depart- 
ment of  Agriculture  and  Technical  Instruction  for  Ireland. 
This  Department  was  created  by  Irishmen  in  1898  and  with 
it  is  bound  up  the  whole  recent  history  of  Agricultural  and 
Technical  Training  in  Ireland,  together  with  that  of  Sir 
Horace  Plunkett's  Co-operative  Movement. 

135 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

II. — CONDITIONS  OF  TENURE. 

(A)  The  Primary  School  from  which  the 
pupil   comes  must   have   adopted  the   Gaelic 
League  Education  Programme  as  modified  by 
Bail  Eireann,  viz. :  (a)  Irish  to  be  the  official 
school  language,  i.e.,  Irish  to  be  used  for  Roll 
Call,  orders,  prayers,  etc.;    (b)    Irish  to  be 
taught  for  vernacular  use  to  each  child  for  at 
least  one  hour  per  day;  (c)  Irish  history  to  be 
taught  to  all  pupils. 

(B)  The  Secondary  School  which  the  pupil, 
or  his  parents  or  guardians,  choose  for  the 
holding  of  a  Scholarship  shall  have  adopted 
(a)  the  Gaelic  League  Programme  for  Sec- 
ondary Schools,  viz.,  Irish  to  be  taught  to  all 
pupils  for  vernacular  use;  (b)  Irish  history  to 
be  taught  to  all  pupils;  (c)  all  Examination 
Papers  to  be  set  in  both  English  and  Irish, 
each  pupil  examined  to  have  permission  to 
answer  in  whichever  of  the  two  languages  he 
may  think  fit.    In  examinations  in  a  foreign 
language  the  use  of  that  foreign  language  to 
be  permitted  in  setting  and  answering  ques- 

136 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

tions.  The  pupil  to  be  taught  at  the  Second- 
ary School  with  a  view  to  Matriculation  at 
the  N.U.I. 

III. — TENURE  OF  SCHOLARSHIPS. 

The  tenure  of  these  scholarships  shall  be 
four  years,  provided  the  pupil  shows  satisfac- 
tory progress  as  tested  by:  (a)  the  periodical 
school  examination;  (&)  the  annual  school  ex- 
amination at  the  end  of  the  academic  year; 
(c)  the  special  test  in  Irish  and  Irish  history 
applied  by  the  Committee's  Examiner  at  the 
end  of  each  year;  (d)  a  satisfactory  report 
from  the  Examining  Board  of  a  Gaelic  Col- 
lege, where  the  pupil  will  spend  a  session  in 
the  summer  of  each  year  at  the  expense  of 
the  Committee,  until  certified  as  able  to  be 
taught  through  the  medium  of  Irish.  The 
courses  for  the  Special  History  Examinations 
are:  At  the  end  of  First  Year — Story  of  Ire- 
land (tested  Bilingually)  of  Beata  Naom  Pa- 
draig — Bilingual.  At  the  end  of  Second  Year 
— Mitchel's  History  of  Ireland  and  Stair  na 
hEireann  Part  I.  (Eogan  o  Neactain).  At  the 
137 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

end  of  Third  Year — Last  Conquest  and  Sean 
A'Daimis,  "Eire"  (Conan  Maol).  At  the  end 
of  Fourth  Year— The  Irish  Wars,  by  J.  J. 
O'Connell,  M.A.,  and  Saothar  ar  Sean  O'Coal- 
laig,  T.D. 

****** 

SYLLABUS. 

The  following  is  the  list  of  subjects  for  examina- 
tion (written  and  oral)  as  may  be  necessary: 
*          *          *          *          * 

AN  GAEDILGE.— "Scadna,"  50  pp.,  Part  I.  (Reading 
and  Dictation).  "Aids  to  Irish  Composition,"  by  the 
Christian  Brothers  (the  whole  book). 

IRISH  HISTORY. — "Catechism  of  the  History  of  Ire- 
land," by  W.  J.  O'Neill  Daunt,  Chapters  I.  to  XVIII. 
inclusive.     Christian  Brothers'  Irish  History  Reader. 
***** 

ENGLISH.— Poetry— "The  Four  Winds  of  Erin," 
E.  Carbery.  Literature  in  Ireland.  Irish  Verse — 
Selected,  by  Yeats.  Prose— The  Letters  of  Wolfe 
Tone ;  a  written  Letter  or  Essay.  Reading  and  Dicta- 
tion. 

***** 

(Signed)     MAURICE  FITZGERALD, 

Secretary  to  Committee. 

By  the  time  I  had  digested  this  document,  I 
was  informed  that  the  Deputy-Mayor  and  Cor- 
138 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

poration  were  ready  to  receive  me.  In  the 
Council  Chamber  sat  four  gentlemen  at  the 
farther  end  of  a  long  table.  They  were — it 
was  evident — coldly  furious. 

"He  had  seven  days  to  pay  the  fine,  but  they 
took  him  on  the  first  day." 

The  speaker,  Councillor  Casey,  was  a  short, 
dark  man  with  a  metallic  voice.  He  belonged 
to  a  type  I  had  not  so  far  met — a  Sinn  Fein 
Labour  leader.  In  reply  to  my  inquiry  he  con- 
tinued vigorously : 

"Lorriesf  ul  of  soldiers  were  sent  to  his  house 
this  morning,  and  they  dragged  him  away. 
Look  at  this " 

He  handed  me  a  typewritten  note : 

"H.Q.,  Limerick. 

"Sir, — The  military  Governor  has  ordered  me  to 
request  you  kindly  to  attend  at  the  New  Barracks 
on  Monday,  April  25th,  at  11.30  a.m. 

"(Signed)     J.  EASTWOOD, 

"Major. 
"For  Staff  Captain,  18th  Infantry  Brigade." 

"Should  not  the  military  come  to  the  chief 
citizen  of  a  town  instead  of  summoning  him 
as  if  he  was  their  servant?" 

139 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

"Limerick's  mayors  have  been — unfortu- 
nate ?"  I  suggested. 

"Mr.  O'Mara,  junior,  is  the  third  mayor  we 
have  elected  within  sixteen  months.  O'Cal- 
laghan  was  mayor  for  twelve  months,  Clancy 
for  six  weeks. 

They  were  both  murdered  during  Curfew 
hours  on  the  same  night."  Councillors  Griffin 
and  O'Flynn  spoke  almost  in  the  same  breath. 
"A  month  earlier  a  District  Police-Inspector 
had  been  murdered  as  he  came  from  church." 

"Speaking  for  Limerick,"  the  Deputy-Mayor 
remarked  impressively,  "I  say  that  if  we're 
given  an  open  tribunal  of  our  fellow-citizens, 
we  can — even  to-day — bring  the  murderers  of 
O'Callaghan  and  Clancy  to  justice." 

For  a  few  minutes  we  switched  off  to  gen- 
eral politics.  Of  the  prospects  of  a  settlement 
the  Corporation's  spokesman  would  only  say, 
"We  leave  ourselves  in  the  hands  of  our  elected 
representatives." 

"But,"  he  added,  "the  whole  of  Ireland  is 
behind  President  de  Valera.  Of  Dail  Eireann, 
let  me  remind  you,  thirty-two  members  are  in 

140 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

prison,  eight  in  America,  and  thirty-three  at 
liberty.  But  it  functions!  You  ask  why  we 
stood  out  of  the  1917  Convention?  I'll  tell 
you  in  a  word :  because  we  didn't  believe  Lloyd 
George  was  sincere.  And  we  don't  believe  he's 
sincere  to-day.  Let  him  call  Irish  representa- 
tives together — let  him  stop  this  damnable  per- 
secution of  our  people — let  him  make  a  definite 
offer." 

"Damnable  persecution?" 

"Yes  —  damnable  persecution,"  Councillor 
Griffin  echoed  hotly.  "Our  Member,  Mr.  Coli- 
vet,  was  arrested  two  or  three  months  ago.  No 
charge  was  preferred  against  him  and  none 
has  been  made  yet.  This  man  has  been  kept  in 
Rathkeale  Prison  in  solitary  confinement,  suf- 
fering from  a  skin  disease  and  being  used  as  a 
hostage." 

"There  are  twenty  ladies  in  prison,"  declared 
Councillor  O'Flynn.  "Perhaps  you  do  not  real- 
ise that,  sir.  And  two  thousand  five  hundred 
Irishmen  all  told." 

"What  about  Ulster?"  "  One  wanted  to  get 
back  to  the  original  point. 

141 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

"We  will  give  Ulster  safeguards,"  the  Dep- 
uty-Mayor replied.  "But  she  must  come  into 
a  Dublin  Parliament." 

"The  religious  question,  then?" 

"With  us  in  the  South  religion  makes  no 
difference.  In  the  North  they're  bigots." 

"Has  Bolshevism  anything  in  common  with 
Sinn  Fein?" 

"No." 

"The  present  state  of  affairs  is  ruining  the 
town,"  declared  one  Councillor.  "Fairs  and 
markets  are  prohibited;  on  market  days  the 
country  people  are  turned  back." 

From  the  Town  Hall  I  repaired  to  the  New 
Barracks. 

The  Commandant  of  the  18th  Infantry  Bri- 
gade, Colonel  Cameron,  C.B.,  C.M.G.,  saw  me 
at  once.  He  said : 

"What  happened  is  this.  The  Mayor  was 
not  in  the  first  instance  arrested.  I  wrote  him 
a  polite  note" — the  one  already  reproduced — 
"asking  him  to  come  up  and  see  me.  I  wanted 
to  point  out  to  him  that  I  understood  he  had 

142 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

broken  a  Martial  Law  regulation.  To  this  he 
sent  a  disputatious  reply.  I  therefore  had  to 
order  him  to  come  up  to  barracks.  He  did  not 
comply  and  I  was  therefore  forced  to  arrest 
him.  He  was  fined  £  10,  with  the  alternative 
of  a  week's  imprisonment  He  preferred  to 
do  the  week." 

If  the  Deputy-Mayor  and  Corporation  had 
been  outspoken,  the  Colonel-Commandant  and 
his  Staff  were  no  less  frank.  The  implication 
upon  the  Black  and  Tans  in  connection  with 
the  affair  of  the  Mayors  was,  I  could  see,  bit- 
terly resented. 

"Civilian  trials,"  said  Colonel  Cameron,  "are 
useless.  You  cannot  get  at  the  truth.  Wit- 
nesses perjure  themselves  till  they're  blue  in 
the  face.  I  am  satisfied,  however,  that  Clancy 
and  O'Callaghan  were  opposed  to  murder  and 
that  it  was  largely  due  to  them  that  there  had 
been  no  attack  on  the  Crown  Forces  in  Lim- 
erick for  six  months  prior  to  the  murders  on 
March  7th,  1921.  It  is  a  fact  that  outrages 
began  again  exactly  a  month  after  their 
death." 

143 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

I  took  the  opportunity  to  a$k  further  ques- 
tions. Colonel  Cameron,  whose  command 
comprised  the  counties  of  Limerick,  Clare,  and 
Tipperary,  said  that  it  might  take  four  years 
of  guerilla  warfare  before  the  I.R.A.  could  be 
rounded  up. 

"But  we're  making  progress.  Reprisals, 
you  must  see,  are  inevitable.  For  instance,  the 
other  evening  a  bomb  was  thrown  at  three 
R.I.C.  men  and  a  soldier  walking  in  Carey 
Street.  I  have  therefore  ordered  Curfew  for 
7  p.m.  in  that  area  of  the  town.  When  an  out- 
rage takes  place,  I  order  the  house  or  houses 
of  local  inhabitants  who  are  known  Sinn 
Feiners  to  be  burnt." 

"Is  feeling  in  the  town  bitter  against  the 
military?" 

"The  fact  is,  as  I  have  said,  that  our  men 
got  on  admirably  with  the  people  of  Limerick 
until  the  murder  of  the  two  Mayors.  From 
that  date  onwards  things  have  woken  up. 
Until  then  I  drove  about  in  my  car  without 
an  escort.  I  would  not  do  so  now." 

I  inquired  as  to  the  character  of  the  Black 

144 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

and  Tans,  pointing  out  certain  matters  that 
had  been  alleged  against  them. 

"I  do  not  say,"  replied  the  Colonel-Com- 
mandant, "that  they  have  always  been  all  they 
might  be  or  that  there  have  not  been  black 
sheep  in  the  flock.  We  had  to  augment  the 
Forces  in  a  hurry,  and  it  was  inevitable  that 
discipline  should  not  at  first  be  up  to  the  old 
R.I.C.  standard.  What  you  may  not  be  aware 
of  is  that  the  old  Irish  police  feel  far  more 
strongly  about  Republican  outrages  than  the 
English  recruits.  English  people  don't  realise 
that,  and  it  is  not  fair  to  impute  any  and  every 
outbreak  to  the  new  English  recruits.  .  .  . 
Well — we  have  done  a  lot  of  weeding-out,  and 
discipline  is  now  greatly  improved." 

In  conclusion,  Colonel  Cameron  used  a 
memorable  phrase: 

"These  people  dwell  too  much  in  the  past. 
We  must  wash  out  the  past  before  we  start 
afresh." 

My  last  call  but  one  on  this  busy  day  was  at 
the  gaol. 

145 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

Armed  with  an  introduction  to  the  Gov- 
ernor, I  hoped  to  see  the  incarcerated  Mayor 
himself.  My  request  was,  however,  definitely 
refused,  inasmuch  as  even  his  wife  could  not 
by  prison  regulations  be  permitted  this  pleas- 
ure. Nor,  I  was  informed,  was  Mr.  O'Mara, 
jnr.,  himself  in  a  mood  to  receive  strangers. 
He  was  at  that  moment  engaged  in  a  discus- 
sion on  May-fly  fishing  with  an  officer  of 
H.M.'s  Forces. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  open-minded, 
more  anxious  to  place  at  the  disposal  of  an  in- 
quirer such  facilities  for  acquiring  informa- 
tion as  were  at  their  disposal  than  the  G.O.C. 
and  his  Staff.  It  was  indeed  by  special  per- 
mission of  the  former  that  I  was  enabled  to 
talk  with  two  interesting  denizens  of  the  In- 
ternment Camp. 

One  of  these  was  Michael  Colivet,  aforemen- 
tioned as  M.P.  for  Limerick  City  and  member 
of  Dail  Eireann,  the  other  a  picturesque  per- 
sonality with  a  rebellious  history.  In  Easter 
Week  this  latter  personage  had  served  as  a 
captain;  during  the  present  campaign  he  had 
146 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

been  associated  with  various  ambushes,  and 
upon  one  occasion  (it  was  alleged),  having 
been  ordered  to  fill  in  a  trench,  had  refused, 
saying  that  such  a  task  was  beneath  the  dig- 
nity of  an  officer  of  the  I.R.A.  On  the  whole, 
he  thought  he  would  prefer  to  be  shot. 

I  was  escorted  down  to  the  Prison  Camp  by 
a  Staff  officer  in  plain  clothes  who  (I  noticed) 
carried  a  revolver  in  his  coat  pocket.  We  trav- 
elled in  a  motor-car  with  an  armed  guard. 
The  prisoners  were  confined  in  a  series  of 
wired-in  pens  like  poultry-runs  some  forty 
yards  long  by  twenty  broad  with  a  wooden 
living-hut  in  the  centre  of  each.  About  a 
dozen  were  allotted  to  each  hut.  Before  being 
admitted  through  a  regular  thicket  of  barbed- 
wire  to  the  enclosure  and  introduced  to  its 
occupants,  I  was  made  to  promise  not  to  hold 
them  in  conversation  for  more  than  twenty 
minutes. 

Outside  the  "thicket,"  two  prisoners  were 
talking  to  their  friends — well-dressed  ladies, 
respectable-looking  men  who  might  have  been 
schoolmasters  or  clergymen  in  mufti. 
147 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

The  Republican  officer,  H ,  came  out  of 

the  hut  first.  He  is  a  brawny,  jovial-looking 
fellow,  not  unlike  the  late  James  Connolly,  his 
appearance  of  hearty  and  open-hearted  good- 
humour  belying  some  of  the  deeds  in  which  he 
is  alleged  to  have  taken  part.  He  wore  a  shirt 
without  a  collar,  which  gave  him  a  more  raffish 
appearance  than  he  perhaps  wears  in  civil 
life. 

He  was  reluctant  to  discuss  politics.  He 
said: 

"I  don't  know  why  I'm  here.  They've  held 
me  six  months  now,  and  no  trial.  They've 
never  even  made  any  charge  against  me  ex- 
cept that  I'm  a  member  of  an  illegal  organisa- 
tion— the  I.R.A.  My  position  is  simply  this: 
It  is  my  duty  to  do  what  Dail  Eireann  tells  me 
to  do.  They  are  the  elected  representatives  of 
the  Irish  people.  I  merely  obey  them.  We  are 
independent  people ;  we  are  not  the  slaves  of  a 
foreign  power.  .  .  .  But  here  comes  my  friend. 
He  will  do  the  talking." 

Michael  Colivet  impressed  me  as  had  other 
Sinn  Feiners  with  his  youth,  his  alertness,  and 

148 


TALKS    IN    LIMERICK 

a  certain  guarded  diffidence.  He  is  a  small, 
clean-shaven,  sandy-haired  man  who  does  not 
look  a  day  more  than  twenty-six.  He  has  a 
self-possessed,  quiet  manner — a  different  sort 
altogether  to  H . 

Much  of  what  he  said  corresponded  to  the 
sentiments  of  Barry  Egan  and  Liamon  de 
Roiste.  "That  is  a  matter  for  Dail  Eireann," 
he  rapped  out  repeatedly  and  with  the  promp- 
titude of  a  formula. 

"We  are  not  to  be  treated  like  little  chil- 
dren and  told  our  punishment  or  told  to  be 
good,"  he  protested.  "Any  concession  or  ne- 
gotiation has  got  to  come  from  Dail  Eireann, 
the  elected  representatives  of  the  people,  and 
must  be  agreed  upon  as  between  one  nation 
and  another." 

I  inquired  whether  he  considered  the  Repub- 
lican movement  to  be  representative  of  the 
whole  people.  The  (perhaps)  obvious  answer 
came: 

"The  Irish  people  had  the  opportunity  of 
voting  for  Constitutional  Nationalism  if  they 
preferred  it  in  1918.  They  voted  Sinn  Fein 

149 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

by  an  overwhelming  majority.  You  don't  want 
anything  plainer  than  that,  do  you  ?" 

Colivet  was  obviously  reluctant  to  answer 
direct  questions  directly  or  to  commit  himself 

in  any  way.  The  soldier  H smiled,  and 

assented  to  whatever  his  friend  said.  But  on 
one  or  two  points  both  were  voluble. 

"Look  at  this  miserable  place!  Only  two 
hours  exercise  a  day.  Penned  up  like  animals. 
And  no  charge  against  us !  They  won't  tell  us 
what  we're  here  for.  But  they  use  us  as 
hostages.  A  cowardly  act,  that,  to  protect 
themselves  1" 

"They  let  us  see  our  friends — well,  prac- 
tically whenever  we  want  to,  I'll  say  that  for 

them,"  H conceded.  "And  they  don't  feed 

us  too  badly." 

It  was  the  using  as  hostages  that  rankled. 
They  came  back  to  it  again  and  again — that 
and  the  uncertainty  of  the  charge  hanging 
over  them,  and  of  the  period  of  their  impris- 
onment. 

"I  could  get  released  to-morrow  if  I  was 

150 


TALKS    IN   LIMERICK 

willing  to  promise  certain  things,"  H 

asserted;  "but  I'm  not." 

"Time's  up!"  the  Corporal  of  the  guard 
called  out.  .  .  . 

It  had  seemed  a  very  brief  twenty  minutes. 


CHAPTER  X 

GLIMPSE   INTO  AN   UNDERWORLD 

NOTHING  remains  more  strange,  and 
nothing  more  sinister,  in  a  long  history 
of  Irish  crime  than  the  murders  of  the  two 
Mayors  of  Limerick.  Strange  and  sinister  in 
particular,  because  here  are  two  of  the  most 
prominent  citizens  of  one  of  the  largest  towns 
in  Ireland  done  to  death  in  the  same  night — 
and  to  this  day  none  shall  say  by  whom. 

The  embittered  accusations  of  the  Deputy- 
Mayor  and  Corporation,  followed  by  Colonel 
Cameron's  cryptic  words,  set  me  investigating : 

"Speaking  for  Limerick,  I  say  that  if  we're 
given  an  open  tribunal  of  our  fellow-citizens, 
we  can — even  to-day — bring  the  murderers  of 
O'Callaghan  and  Clancy  to  justice." 

"The  face  is  Clancy  and  O'Callaghan  were 
both  quiet,   decent,  moderate  men,   and  we 
wanted  them.    The  I.R.A.  did  not." 
152 


GLIMPSE    INTO    AN    UNDERWORLD 

Between  these  two  statements  and  their  un- 
derlying significance  lies  a  story  so  peculiar, 
so  tortuous  and  difficult  and  underground  as  to 
suggest  the  days  of  the  Star  Chamber  or  of  the 
Inquisition  rather  than  of  the  year  1921 :  a 
world  of  intrigue,  of  punishment  or  reprisal, 
of  accusation  and  counter-accusation,  of  sus- 
picion, and  semi-certainty — then  again  doubt. 
Behind  the  veil— truth.  Then  Death.  .  .  . 
Who  shall  unravel  the  truth,  or  will  it  ever  be 
unravelled?  Will  it  ever  see  the  light  of  day? 

For  with  investigation  of  this  half-forgotten 
crime  the  plot  thickens.  Whereas  the  military 
swear  one  thing  and  the  civil  another,  a  third 
party  of  unimpeachable  probity,  acquainted 
alike  with  local  conditions  and  with  the  de- 
ceased men,  believes  that  the  murders  were 
committed  by  Sinn  Fein  itself.  Mrs.  O'Cal- 
laghan's  letters  to  the  Press  have  spoken  in  an 
opposite  sense.  A  special  correspondent  of 
one  of  the  great  London  newspapers,  present 
in  the  city  at  that  time  and  well  acquainted 
with  the  victims,  agrees  with  her  view.  The 
motive  alleged,  a  reprisal  by  the  police  for  the 
153 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

murder  one  month  earlier  of  a  police  inspector 
on  his  way  to  church. 

All  but  convinced  by  this  evidence  when  I 
repaired  to  the  New  Barracks,  I  there  met  with 
a  flat  denial.  A  commentary  upon  the  state  of 
the  town,  though  an  inexplicit  one,  stares  one 
in  the  face  almost  opposite  the  barrack  gates — 
writings  on  a  wall: 

"PUG.    MQ.    HOAN.  REBES.    'Up  B.  &T.f" 

"The  best  proof  of  what  we  say,"  urged  a 
Staff  officer,  "is  to  be  found  in  a  fragment  of  a 
letter  addressed  to  the  Commandant,  I.R.A., 
Limerick,  and  captured  during  a  raid  on  a 
Dublin  house.  The  sense  of  it  is : 

"We've    sent   you    four   hundred    rifles. 
What  are  you  doing  with  them  ?" 

The  word  of  an  officer  of  H.M.'s  Forces  can 
no  more  easily  be  doubted  in  1921  than  in  1914. 

"The  murders  followed  very  soon  after,  and 
from  that  day  things  have  'woken  up.'  As  to 
154 


GLIMPSE    INTO   AN    UNDERWORLD 

their  having  taken  place  during  curfew  hours 
— upon  which  fact  great  stress  has  been  laid 
— everybody  knows  that  on  certain  nights  of 
the  week  it  is,  or  was,  possible  to  slip  through 
the  curfew  patrol.  Our  men  cannot  be  every- 
where at  once.  I  may  add  that  of  two  Black 
and  Tans  who  were  definitely  named  as  hav- 
ing taken  part  in  the  crimes  one  was  abroad  at 
the  time,  the  other  on  in-lying  picquet." 

A  great  deal  more  was  said.  There  was  a 
deal  of  mystery  in  the  night  of  the  happenings 
— signals  by  lighted  cigarette  from  dark  door- 
ways, a  sentry's  failure  to  challenge  and  his 
denial  that  it  was  his  duty  so  to  do,  men  seen 
by  a  doctor  (after  the  second  murder)  hurry- 
ing across  Sarsfield  Bridge,  and  so  forth.  I 
went  into  the  story  in  some  detail  because  it  is 
the  particular  one  among  many  of  its  kind  in 
Ireland  which  came  my  way.  The  very  fact 
of  Sinn  Fein  being  suspected  of  having  done 
to  death  two  of  its  leading  representatives 
under  such  ferocious  circumstances,  seems  to 
shed  a  shaft  of  baleful  and  unforgettable  light 
into  the  underworld  of  that  time. 
155 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Indeed,  one  does  not  need  to  be  convinced 
that  the  real  history  of  the  country  during  two 
years  past  is  little  more  than  half -known  now, 
that  much  of  it  probably  never  will  be  known, 
that  a  man  has  to  dig  out  and  unearth  the  truth 
for  himself,  that,  in  short,  the  recent  condi- 
tion of  the  country  has  been  a  "history  within 
a  history." 

While  we  were  still  discussing  these  matters 
a  plain-clothes  constable  entered  the  room  and 
announced  that  he  had  just  run  to  earth  and 
captured  two  of  the  rebels  concerned  in  the 
bomb-throwing  at  policemen  a  few  nights  be- 
fore. They  had  been  found  hiding  in  a  hay- 
loft five  miles  from  the  city  and  had  not  offered 
resistance. 

"That'll  be  a  swinging  job,  won't  it?" 

"Perhaps.  .  .  ." 

This  led  to  the  subject  of  the  I.R.A.,  its 
weapons  and  methods. 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  where  the  Staff 
worked  stood  two  large  wooden  boxes  con- 
taining various  sorts  of  ammunition  captured 

156 


GLIMPSE    INTO   AN   UNDERWORLD 

from  the  I.R.A.  Taking  up  a  handful  I  found 
split  bullets,  soft-nosed  bullets,  together  with  a 
curious  wire  contrivance  stripped  from  the 
cartridge  and  capable  of  inflicting  terrible 
laceration.  A  bandolier  and  a  green  peaked 
cap  of  the  I.R.A.  hung  on  a  peg.  Half  a  dozen 
rifles  of  patterns  varying  from  the  old  Mauser 
and  Winchester  Repeater  to  the  Lee-Enfield 
(Mark  VI  and  VII)  and  a  sort  of  blunderbuss 
that  looked  like  an  elephant  gun,  stood  against 
the  wall.  The  ammunition  included  German, 
French,  Service,  and  Nos.  5  and  6  sporting 
cartridges. 

"The  swine!"  exclaimed  an  officer.  "If  I 
caught,  one  of  them  with  these  things  on  him 
I'd  shoot  him  in  cold  blood  with  the  greatest 
pleasure." 

He  seemed  to  mean  that. 

The  organisation  of  the  Republican  Army, 
I  learnt,  was  based  on  Brigade  Areas  com- 
manded by  commandants,  with  captains  con- 
trolling bands  of  twenty-five  to  fifty  men.  A 
Brigade  Area  might  be  called  upon  to  find  a 
given  number  of  men  for  a  particular  opera- 
157 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

tion.  There  were  also  Flying  Columns  which 
operated  mainly  in  the  mountainous  districts, 
avoiding  main  roads  and  never  staying  more 
than  two  days  at  one  place.  They  might  de- 
scend suddenly  upon  a  district  to  carry  out  a 
raid  or  ambush,  and  would  then  quarter  them- 
selves upon  the  inhabitants  of  that  district,  de- 
manding board  and  lodging  and  making  the 
peasants  responsible  for  their  safety  during 
their  stay. 

"We  don't  worry  much  about  the  rank  and 
file,"  the  Intelligence  Officer  continued.  "It's 
the  leaders  we  want,  rather  particularly  Mike 
Collins  and  Richard  Mulcahy.  Your  average 
ambusher  is  an  ignorant  peasant  who  has  a 
gun  put  in  his  hand,  is  herded  to  the  scene  of 
an  ambush,  and  told  to  loose  it  off.  That  sort 
bolts  at  the  first  opportunity.  Here,  in  Lim- 
erick, which  is  an  I.R.A.  Brigade  Area,  we 
have  about  six  hundred  volunteers.  We  know 
them  all.  The  most  desperate  characters,  the 
men  definitely  'on  the  run/  keep  to  the  moun- 
tains. Presumably  they  enjoy  the  life.  Any- 
way, they  know  they'll  be  shot  if  they're 
158 


GLIMPSE    INTO    AN   UNDERWORLD 

caught,  and  I  suppose  they  reckon  on  getting 
amnestied  one  day  if  they're  not." 

The  subject  of  hostages  was  again  brought 
up.  I  mentioned  what  Michael  Colivet  and 
H had  said. 

"Oh!  they  loathe  it,  I  know,"  was  the  Court- 
Martial  officer's  comment.  "But  what  do  you 
expect?  I'm  not  going  to  get  done  in  with 
these  chaps  skulking  behind  their  barbed-wire 
entanglements !  Some  of  them  sulk  on  the  job 
and  some  of  them  make  the  best  of  it  in  a  sport- 
ing spirit.  I  always  rag  them  a  bit.  'Well, 
Paddy/  I  say,  'who's  for  it  to-day — you  or 
me?  Because  if  I  go,  you're  going,  too,  you 
know.'  And  sometimes  they  laugh  and  some- 
times they  look  murder.  But  they  know  we 
mean  it.  .  .  ." 

An  extract  from  a  secret  operations  report 
undated  and  captured  at  an  I.R.A.  headquar- 
ters gives  the  situation  from  another  angle. 

".  .  .  We  took  cover  in  an  old  rath  and  waited 

there  about  twenty  minutes.    One  of  our  men  crawled 

out  about  three  hundred  yards  to  a  civilian  and  learned 

from  him  of  a  certain  way  out  that  was  clear  of  the 

159 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

enemy.  We  moved  for  this  point  and  at  last  got  clear 
of  our  pursuers. 

"The  Officer  Commanding  fought  bravely  and 
seemed  to  die  a  happy  and  painless  death.  He  was  at 
Confession  and  Communion  with  all  our  men  only 
three  days  before.  The  wounded  man  struggled  on 
gamely.  It  was  impossible  to  render  first-aid  owing  to 
the  heavy  fire  of  the  enemy,  and  he  bled  a  great  deal. 

"The  Brigade-Quartermaster  displayed  extraordi- 
nary coolness  and  daring  throughout,  and  were  it  not 
for  him  and  the  O.C.  we  were  done  for. 

"THE  TRENCHING  OF  ROADS 

"The  trenching  of  roads  which  is  now  carried  out 
all  over  Ireland  has,  in  many  districts,  rendered  the 
enemy's  road  transport  practically  useless.  An  ex- 
ample of  this  was  given  in  the  Firies  area  of  Co.  Kerry 
in  the  last  days  of  April.  A  decision  to  round  up  all 
Republican  troops  in  the  area  was  taken  by  the  local 
Military  Headquarters.  The  operation  was  to  have 
lasted  several  days,  and  a  great  body  of  troops  were 
to  have  been  employed  upon  it.  Information  of  this 
operation  reached  the  local  Republican  Headquarters, 
and  a  few  hours  before  it  was  timed  to  take  place  all 
the  roads  in  the  area  were  deeply  trenched.  The  first 
party  of  the  enemy  arrived  soon  afterwards  in  four- 
teen lorries,  but  was  unable  to  reach  the  district 
marked  for  the  round-up.  After  an  unsuccessful 
effort  to  overcome  the  difficulty  the  enemy  withdrew 
without  a  single  prisoner." 


160 


GLIMPSE    INTO    AN    UNDERWORLD 

It  was  at  Limerick  that  I  read  the  Bishop  of 
Killaloe's  astonishing  Easter  Pastoral,  breath- 
ing fire  and  brimstone  against  England;  also  a 
letter  from  a  Co.  Waterf ord  parish  nurse,  tell- 
ing a  long  tale  of  persecution  at  the  hands  of 
Sinn  Fein  on  account  of  her  ministrations  to 
the  wives  and  families  of  the  local  R.I.C. 

More  illuminating  than  either  of  these,  how- 
ever, because  verifiable,  was  the  case  of  W.,  a 
skilled  mechanic,  and  his  wife.  To  hear  their 
story  was  to  throw  another  shaft  of  light  into 
this  underworld  of  Ireland.  Of  this  man  the 
Protestant  Bishop  of  Limerick  has  written: 

"I  entertain  the  highest  opinion  of  his  character. 
He  is  a  skilful  workman ;  and  in  health  could  earn  his 
living  well." 

I  found  the  old  couple  occupying  the  back- 
bedroom  of  a  small  cottage.  W.,  a  good-look- 
ing bearded  man,  69  years  of  age,  was  lying  in 
bed,  the  pallor  of  his  features  testifying  to  a 
long  and  grievous  illness.  He  told  his  story 
with  a  dignity  and  restraint  that  were  im- 
pressive. 

161 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

He  is  an  Englishman.  Having  been  advised 
thirteen  and  a  half  years  ago  that  the  milder 
climate  would  be  beneficial  to  his  wife's  health, 
he  migrated  to  Tipperary,  where  he  had  been 
offered  work.  The  couple  afterwards  moved 
to  Co.  Limerick,  where  they  dwelt  for  the  next 
eleven  years.  They  found  themselves  the  only 
English  people  in  the  place.  They  set  up  a 
shop,  and  were  at  one  time  earning  as  much 
as  £5  and  £6  a  week.  They  got  on  well  with 
their  neighbours,  taking  no  interest  in  politics, 
but  keeping  outside  them  as  much  as  possible. 

The  first  change  occurred  after  the  1916  re- 
bellion. A  subtle  hostility  began  to  manifest 
itself  among  the  neighbours;  their  custom  fell 
off;  when  they  went  into  other  shops,  they 
were  told  English  customers  were  not  wanted. 
In  1917,  when  Mr.  de  Valera  visited  the  dis- 
trict, definite  signs  of  enmity  became  apparent. 
One  day  a  procession  passed  their  windows, 
shouting  "Bloody  Protestants !"  "To  hell  with 
the  King!" 

Thereafter  the  women  became  particularly 
hostile.  "The  women  are  always  worse  than 
162 


GLIMPSE    INTO   AN    UNDERWORLD 

the  men,"  said  Mrs.  W.  A  woman,  who  had 
hitherto  carried  water  for  the  old  couple,  was 
threatened  that  if  she  did  not  desist  her  house 
would  be  burned.  At  this  time  W.  wrote  di- 
rect to  Sir  John  Maxwell,  and  for  a  while  the 
persecution  ceased. 

A  climax  came,  however,  one  evening  in 
September,  1918,  when  two  men  passing  W., 
who  was  smoking  his  pipe  at  his  shop-door 
— "waiting,"  as  he  described  it,  "for  his  dog 
to  come  in" — gave  him  a  push,  saying  "Garn 
yer  bloody  Englishman!"  "I  righted  myself 
and  said,  What  do  you  mean  by  this  sort  of 
behaviour?'  One  of  them  gave  me  a  violent 
kick  in  the  stomach." 

"I  heard  him  cry  out,"  interposed  Mrs.  W. 
(who  was  now  weeping)  "and  ran  to  the  door. 
I  found  him  lying  on  the  ground  in  great 
pain." 

The  couple  then  reported  the  matter  to  the 
police,  who  advised  them  to  take  no  notice. 
A  Roman  Catholic  priest,  who  happened  to  be 
president  of  the  local  Sinn  Fein  court,  recom- 
mended them  to  bring  their  case  before  that 

163 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

tribunal.  They  replied  they  would  rather  die 
than  do  so. 

By  this  time  all  their  friends  had  deserted 
them  with  the  exception  of  the  clergyman. 
Having  nowhere  to  go  they  were  unable  to 
leave  the  place,  and  had,  in  any  case,  no  means 
of  moving  their  possessions.  Internal  com- 
plications had  developed,  as  a  result  of  the  kick, 
and  W.  was  operated  on  three  times  within 
twelve  months.  In  the  spring  of  1920  they 
were  warned  by  their  landlord,  a  Sinn  Fein 
saddler,  to  leave,  with  the  words  "If  you  don't 
clear  out,  you'll  be  chucked  out."  They  were 
in  a  very  sad  plight.  Fortunately  the  police 
did  not  at  once  serve  the  warrant  for  eviction, 
on  account  of  the  doctor's  certificate,  but  the 
matter  was  taken  to  a  Sinn  Fein  court. 

Finally  in  July,  1920,  they  received  informa- 
tion that  they  were  to  be  turned  out  on  the 
following  Sunday  night.  The  military  must 
have  received  information  to  this  effect,  be- 
cause they  came  on  Saturday  night  with  a 
lorry  and  guard,  and  conveyed  the  couple  to 
Limerick,  giving  them  one  hour's  notice  to 

164 


GLIMPSE    INTO    AN    UNDERWORLD 

pack  up.  W.  managed  to  obtain  a  small 
amount  of  work  with  a  firm  in  the  town. 
When  this  ceased  he  attempted  to  get  work 
of  his  own,  but  without  success.  Later  in  the 
year  he  underwent  another  operation  for  can- 
cer, the  result  of  his  internal  injuries. 

The  couple  finally  wrote  to  Lord  French  for 
assistance,  and  received  a  visit  from  two  police 
sergeants,  but  nothing  more  was  heard  of  the 
matter.  They  found  good  friends,  however, 
in  the  military  and  among  the  ladies  in  the 
country  around,  and  were  eventually  enabled 
to  move  to  Dublin,  where  the  man  went  into 
hospital.  After  a  short  interval  they  were 
brought  over  to  England,  where  treatment  is 
being  carried  on,  with,  it  is  hoped,  some  chance 
of  success. 


CHAPTER   XI 
TALKS   IN   THE   MIDLANDS 

APRIL  30th  was  market-day  in  Birr. 
And  from  about  ten  o'clock  onwards 
small  donkey-carts,  driven  by  ragged-looking 
peasants  and  containing  poultry,  vegetables,  a 
calf,  potatoes,  eggs,  a  pig,  came  bowling  into 
the  little  town.  There  were  farm-wagons 
laden  with  hay,  seed-corn,  roots  and  other 
produce,  there  were  governess-carts  driven  by 
farmers'  wives,  and  motor-cars;  there  were 
bicyclists.  Altogether  Birr  presented  a  lively 
appearance.  .  .  . 

The  heat-wave  continued.  The  sun  scorched 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland's  column  in  the  centre 
of  the  square,  that  column  which  everybody 
told  you  was  any  day  likely  to  tumble  down. 
The  roadway  was  an  inch  deep  in  dust;  they 
had  pulled  down  the  blinds  in  the  County  Club. 
Two  or  three  sleepy  Black  and  Tans  lounged 

166 


TALKS    IN    THE    MIDLANDS 

on  the  steps  of  the  yellow  building  opposite 
which  was  their  home. 

In  the  picturesque  chestnut-shaded  street 
which  leads  from  the  square  to  the  Castle — 
hay-wagons.  Follow  the  narrow  twisting  lane 
between  the  outer  castle-wall  and  a  row  of 
grey  cottages — potatoes.  Rows  of  donkey- 
carts,  rows  of  donkeys.  Turn  into  a  yard  on 
the  left-hand  side — pigs.  Pigs  and  a  few  sheep 
and  a  throng  of  red-faced,  gaitered  men  talk- 
ing pigs.  Pigs  talking  too,  squealing,  grunt- 
ing pigs,  protesting  pigs.  Further  along  the 
street — tethered  in  couples,  fluttering,  helpless, 
and  tumbled  together  in  feathery  squawking 
heaps  upon  the  pavement,  crammed  into  crates 
— poultry.  Hens  gasping  with  heat,  gasping 
for  air — a  cruel  sight.  At  the  corner  of  the 
main  street — calves.  Calves  netted  and  snared 
in  little  carts,  and  groups  of  dealers  or  farmers 
or  smallholders  talking  calves.  Confusion,  too, 
confusion  of  backing  carts,  lazy  donkeys, 
herded  cattle,  and  bawling  men  and  women. 
Where  the  pavement  broadens,  forming  a  kind 
of  cut  de  sac— eggs.  Heaps  and  heaps  of 

167 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

eggs — mountains  of  eggs — housewives  buying, 
and  selling  eggs.  Among  the  eggs,  squatting, 
with  their  backs  against  the  wall,  two  ancient 
gipsies,  looking  like  automatised  mummies 
done  up  in  rags — the  man  tending  his  feet. 
Then  vegetables,  and  all  along  the  main  street 
such  throngs  of  respectable-looking  farmers, 
farmers'  wives  and  disreputable-looking  peas- 
ants, that  one  chances  a  kick  from  an  ass  and 
walks  in  the  roadway.  The  shops,  too, 
crowded.  A  couple  of  soldiers  stroll  by,  a 
couple  of  R.I.C.  men.  People  look  curiously 
at  you  sometimes,  make  remarks  to  each  other 
about  you.  You  find  yourself  counting  the 
number  of  green  ties,  green  scarves,  green 
costumes.  .  .  . 

The  market-luncheon  begins  at  two.  There 
assemble  in  the  dining-room  of  the  inn  a  young 
Church  of  Ireland  clergyman,  two  farmers,  a 
commercial  traveller.  All  know  each  other,  all 
are  evidently  in  the  habit  of  meeting  weekly. 
They  reply  to  your  "good  morning" —  and  re- 
gard you  with  suspicion. 

Conversation   dwindles,   then   ceases   alto- 


TALKS    IN   THE    MIDLANDS 

gether.  Essays  upon  the  weather,  the  market, 
the  future  of  the  crops,  and  the  architectural 
peculiarities  of  Birr — with  special  reference  to 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland — meet  with  monosyl- 
lables. Thwarted  and  still-born,  you  retire: 
silence  reigns  except  for  the  glad  symphony  of 
eating. 

Finally  you  become  conscious  of  definite, 
pointed  hostility.  .  .  . 

Such  is  Birr :  Birr  which  lies  on  the  borders 
of  King's  County  and  Tipperary,  Birr  which 
was  the  first  place  come  to  outside  the  martial 
law  area,  and  therefore  the  first  market,  Birr 
which  is  sometimes  called  Parsonstown. 

Here  definitely  one  leaves  the  South,  enter- 
ing the  less  actively  rebellious  but  more  prob- 
lematical Midlands. 

"This  is  a  Constitutional  island  in  a  sea  of 
Sinn  Fein,"  observed  a  citizen  as  we  strolled 
along  the  quiet  road  that  leads  to  Galway 
under  the  walls  of  the  castle  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening.  "Birr  and  the  district  around  it  have 
always  been  loyal,  chiefly,  I  suppose,  because 
it's  been  a  garrison-town  since  time  immemo- 
169 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

rial,  because  a  lot  of  the  soldiers — and  officers, 
too — have  married  and  settled  down  here.  The 
town  has  not  suffered  in  any  way — touch  wood ! 
— our  local  Black  and  Tans  are  a  well-behaved 
lot,  and  we've  never  so  far  had  curfew.  At 
the  Local  Government  election,  out  of  twenty- 
one  elected  candidates,  only  four  were  Sinn 
Feiners.  You  can't  say  that  of  many  towns  in 
Ireland!" 

I  agreed. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "it's  only  like  that  in 
Birr  itself  and  within  a  radius  of  two  or  three 
miles.  Tullamore  you'll  find  a  much  warmer 
spot.  The  political  change  there  has  only  come 
about  in  the  last  few  years  though.  In  1914 
North  Tipperary  was  so  pro-British  as  to  be 
positively  Jingo.  Hundreds  of  men  volun- 
teered to  join  up — and  were  told  to  go  home 
again.  Now  all  Tipperary,  as  you  know,  is 
red-hot  Sinn  Fein." 

"What  are  the  chief  reasons  for  the 
change?" — a  usual  question. 

"The  blunders  of  the  Government.     If  the 
Asquith  Act  had  been  applied  in  1914,  even 
170 


TALKS    IN    THE    MIDLANDS 

though  Ulster  had  fought  it,  all  this  trouble 
would  have  been  avoided.  War  or  no  war,  it 
would  have  been  worth  while." 

"And  then?" 

"Well,  the  Easter  Rebellion,  and  the  execu- 
tions after  it,  brought  the  whole  country  to  its 
feet.  Coming  to  later  days,  the  repeated  execu- 
tions— in  Cork  and  Dublin — and  the  rule  of  the 
Crown  Forces  have  made  for  greater  and  more 
bitter  resentment  every  day." 

"By  'Crown  Forces'  I  suppose  you  mean  the 
Black  and  Tans?" 

"The  whole  country  is  up  in  arms  against 
them,  but  in  Tullamore  and  Mullingar  you'll 
find  there's  feeling  against  the  Regulars  too. 
This  feeling  may  rankle,  it  may  last — that 
depends  on  the  settlement.  A  more  dangerous 
thing  is  that  the  younger  generation  are  grow- 
ing up  in  an  atmosphere  of  hatred  of  England, 
with  recrimination  as  a  birthright  and  revenge 
as  a  legacy." 

"You  think  there  is  dislike  of  England 
then?" 

"There  is.  And  it's  increasing  because  it's 
171 


A    JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

felt  among  us  that  the  English  people  could 
put  a  stop  to  all  this  if  they  chose — could  insist 
on  a  settlement.  As  to  the  Government,  it's 
hopelessly  mistrusted.  Whatever  the  Govern- 
ment does  must  be  preceded  by  a  pledge  or 
pledges  of  sincerity." 

"By  the  Government  you  really  mean  Lloyd 
George  and  Hamar  Greenwood?" 

The  worthy  fellow  laughed. 

"We've  a  saying  here,  'Don't  call  it  a  lie,  call 
it  a  Greenwood !'  " 

"And  the  Prime  Minister?" 

"Words,  all  words!" 

"You  see,  these  people  don't  understand  Ire- 
land," he  explained.  "Behind  all  the  trouble, 
you've  got  to  recognise  an  almost  complete 
divorce  of  character  and  idea  and  point  of  view 
as  between  the  average  Englishman  and  the 
average  Irishman.  Individually  they  like  one 
another  but  nationally  they've  never  under- 
stood one  another — perhaps  never  will." 

"The  Government  of  Ireland  Act " 

"Nobody  has  any  use  for  the  Government 
of  Ireland  Act  hereabouts.  It  will  fail.  Finan- 

172 


TALKS   IN   THE   MIDLANDS 

daily  it's  unsound,  the  system  of  nomination 
of  the  Senate  is  all  wrong,  the  principle  of 
partition  fatal.  The  Bill's  not  worth  talking 
about." 

"What  sort  of  settlement  can  you  visualise 
then?" 

"Dominion  Home  Rule  perhaps,  but  it  must 
include  Ulster  and  fiscal  autonomy.  Yes — 
something  like  a  Provincial  Federative  scheme 
on  Swiss  lines  is  a  conceivable  basis  of  solu- 
tion, but  economically  you  cannot  put  Munster 
and  Connaught  on  a  par  with  Leinster  and 
Ulster,  you  know." 

While  we  were  discussing  the  difficulties  of 
a  good  relationship  being  established  between 
England  and  the  United  States  with  the  Irish 
Question  still  "in  the  air,"  a  lorry-load  of  sol- 
diers singing  and  shouting,  with  rifles  levelled, 
approached  at  furious  speed  and  dashed  by  in 
a  cloud  of  dust. 

My  friend,  who  had  shown  signs  of  uneasi- 
ness, said, 

"You've  got  to  be.  careful  of  these  gentry 
when  they're  like  that." 
173 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

I  questioned  him  about  the  economic  condi- 
tion of  the  countryside. 

"King's  County,  of  course,  is  mainly  tillage 
and  therefore  prosperity  is  less  pronounced 
here  than  in  dairy  countries,  but  still  it's  been 
very  great." 

There  was,  so  far  as  he  knew,  no  Sinn  Fein 
propaganda  in  the  schools  and  no  Russian 
money  behind  the  Sinn  Fein  movement^ 

"But,"  he  added,  "there's  plenty  of  Amer- 
ican." 

My  next  conversation  at  Birr  was  with  a 
certain  John  Dooley,  member  of  the  King's 
County  Council  and  of  the  1917  Convention. 

He  began  to  speak  at  once  of  this  abortive 
but  significant  event  incident  of  recent  Irish 
history. 

"The  result  of  the  Convention  split  on  a  hair. 
Apart  from  the  Nationalists,  who  wanted  an 
immediate  grant  of  fiscal  autonomy,  only  the 
Ulster  lot  stood  out  of  the  agreement  —  and 
the  Ulstermen  were  obstructionist.  What  the 
Government  asked  for  was  'substantial  agree- 
174 


TALKS    IN    THE    MIDLANDS- 

ment.'  That  is  exactly  what  they  got.  So 
they  promptly  turned  down  our  Report  be- 
cause it  was  not  unanimous." 

'The  fact  is,"  my  Nationalist  friend  went 
on  disgustedly,  "Lloyd  George  only  thought  of 
the  Convention  in  order  to  fool  people  and 
keep  them  busy.  Can  you  wonder  that  a  Gov- 
ernment led  by  him  is  mistrusted?" 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  prospects  of  a 
settlement?" 

"Ulster  remains  as  ever,  the  crux  of  the 
question.  But  I  am  convinced  that  if  a  Parlia- 
ment sat  in  Dublin,  Ulster  would  soon  want  to 
come  into  it.  The  Partition  Act  is  useless  if 
only  because  nobody  in  the  country  wants  it 
except  Antrim,  Armagh,  and  Down.  Far  from 
making  for  a  united  Ireland,  under  it  North 
and  South  would  steadily  drift  apart.  You  can 
see  for  yourself  that  the  Council  of  Ireland 
is  unfairly  composed — twenty  representatives 
of  the  South  and  twenty  of  the  North !  Under 
the  Act  two  sets  of  officials  would  be  needed, 
so  that  half  the  country's  income  would  be 
wasted  on  running  its  machinery.  Have  a 
175 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

referendum  in  the  Ulster  counties  for  partici- 
pation in  the  Northern  or  Southern  Parliament 
— that}  might  point  a  way  out  of  it." 

"And  fiscal  autonomy?" 

"There  should  be  free  trade  between  Eng- 
land and  Ireland,  and  a  mutually-chosen  Com- 
mission could  sit  to  decide  what  duties  are  to  be 
imposed  on  foreign  goods." 

"You  see  under  present  conditions,"  Mr. 
Dooley  continued,  "the  cleavage  between  North 
ancl  South  is  being  accentuated  every  day. 
Take  the  Agricultural  Board,  for  instance. 
There  you  have  a  semi-official  body  drawn 
from  the  whole  of  Ireland,  a  body  that  has 
always  worked  very  well  up  till  now.  Now  it's 
a  farce." 

"What  in  your  opinion  is  the  shortest  way  to 
peace?" 

"Raise  Martial  Law  and  remove  military 
government.  Give  us  fair  treatment,  I  say, 
and  the  present  bitterness  will  soon  be  for- 
gotten." 

"Is  this  bitterness  anti-English  in  origin  or 
anti-Government  ?" 

176 


TALKS    IN   THE   MIDLANDS 

"There's  no  personal  hostility  to  English 
people  here  but  there  is  resentment,  deep  re- 
sentment, that  they  do  not  help  Ireland  or 
interest  themselves  in  her  difficulties.  As  to 
the  present  policy  of  the  Crown,  all  moderate 
people  are  being  alienated  by  it.  Every  Union- 
ist of  note  in  this  district,  for  instance,  has 
become  a  Constitutional  Nationalist.  The  old 
Nationalists  have  become  Sinn  Feiners." 

The  words  were  almost  identical  with  those 
so  often  reiterated  in  Cork. 

"All  the  older  men  in  this  county  are  Nation- 
alists, and  no  Nationalist  will  have  the  Parti- 
tion Act  at  any  price.  Make  up  your  mind 
to  that !" 

I  mentioned  the  recent  appointment  of  a 
Roman  Catholic  Lord  Lieutenant. 

'The  question  of  his  religion  is  of  no  polit- 
ical significance,"  was  Mr.  Dooley's  rejoinder., 
"We  don't  care  tuppence  what  religion  a  man 
professes.  Religion  and  politics  are  essentially 
different  things  in  Southern  Ireland." 

On  the  subject  of  local  conditions,  he  said: 

"Farmers  are  well-off  enough.    There  is  no 
177 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

emigration,  so  their  families  do  the  work  free. 
Unemployment  is  about  normal,  but  the  work- 
ing classes  are  badly  off  really,  for  work  is 
spasmodic.  There's  very  little  buying  and  sell- 
ing. Shopkeepers  want  to  keep  their  retail 
stocks  low." 

A  noticeable  characteristic  of  this  placid 
oasis  in  the  heart  of  stormy  Ireland  was  its 
normal  daily  and  social  life,  the  apparently 
well-to-do  contentment  of  its  inhabitants.  In 
the  market-square  of  an  evening  there  was 
always  a  busy  going  to-and-fro.  Black  and 
Tans  played  football  with  the  local  youths, 
young  ladies  in  white  tennis  frocks  might  be 
seen  riding  homeward  on  bicycles  or  starting 
up  their  cars.  Cows  strolled  casually  through 
the  streets  after  milking. 

I  called  upon  a  local  squire,  and  found  a 
charming  country  place  with  its  equipment  of 
lawns  and  gardens  and  a  park,  permanently 
inhabited.  Nowhere  in  the  country  districts 
did  the  landed  gentry  appear  to  be  disturbed 
in  their  normal  habits  by  local  conditions. 

A  well-known  resident  of  the  district  drew 
178 


TALKS    IN    THE    MIDLANDS 

my  attention  to  the  record  of  Birr  in  the  war. 
Birr  contributed  a  higher  proportion  of  volun- 
teers to  the  Army  than  any  other  town  in 
Ireland.  "Early  in  1914,"  he  said,  "twenty- 
six  out  of  thirty-seven  of  my  employees  joined 
the  Army." 

That  religion  as  a  factor  in  daily  affairs 
cannot  altogether  be  discounted  outside  Ulster 
is  shown  by  the  following  incident: 

Before  an  Urban  District  Council  in  King's 
Co.  came  three  applications  by  its  employees 
under  the  Government  grant  to  meet  the  extra 
cost  of  living.  One  of  the  applicants  was  a 
Roman  Catholic,  the  other  two  Protestants. 
The  population  is  predominantly  Catholic,  the 
proportion  when  the  matter  came  to  a  vote 
being  eleven  to  nine. 

Every  Catholic  member  of  the  U.D.C.  had 
been  zealously  mobilised  beforehand  to  ensure 
this  majority.  In  the  upshot  the  Catholic  ap- 
plicant was  awarded  an  increase  of  £60  under 
the  grant,  while  the  two  Protestants  were 
awarded  <£5  each. 

The  views  of  the  resident  in  question  proved 
179 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

to  be  similar  to  those  of  his  neighbours,  though 
he  claimed  that  the  majority  of  King's  Co. 
farmers  are  really  Conservative,  but  dare  not 
say  so.  They  had  enjoyed  under  the  Union 
unprecedented  prosperity,  though  now  perhaps 
beginning  to  realise  that  they  were  in  for  some 
lean  years. 

"The  South  does  not  want  a  change,  but 
people  would  be  glad  to  accept  a  generous 
measure  of  Dominion  Home  Rule  if  clearly 
offered.  The  best  solution  of  the  Ulster  ques- 
tion would  be  a  plebiscite.  Fiscal  autonomy 
to  be  granted  to  Ireland,  control  of  the  Army, 
Navy,  and  foreign  policy  to  remain  as  here- 
tofore, the  Irish  contribution  to  the  National 
Debt  to  be  agreed  upon.  But,"  he  added,  "hos- 
tility to  England  is  growing,  though  not  in  this 
district.  The  Black  and  Tans  have  been  quiet 
here,  but  unless  they  are  brought  under  disci- 
pline elsewhere  there  can  be  no  peace  in  this 
land." 

One  of  the  most  picturesque  personalities  I 
came  across  in  this  part  of  Ireland  was  Arch- 
deacon Ryan,  of  Birr.  Indeed,  there  was  not 

180 


TALKS    IN    THE    MIDLANDS 

a  little  in  common  between  this  fragile-looking, 
shy-mannered  and  unworldly  priest  and  the 
steel-fibred  leaders  of  Sinn  Fein  whom  I  had 
talked  with  in  Cork.  There  was  the  same — 
how  shall  one  say? — delicate  adjustment  of 
mind,  softness  of  voice  and  manner,  strain  of 
poetry,  faint  perfume  of  idealism  which  molli- 
fies, or  appears  to,  the  rigid  nationalism. 

"Look  back  at  our  history — have  we  much 
to  thank  you  for?"  These  were  the  Arch- 
deacon's opening  words.  "Of  course,  we  have 
some  things  to  thank  England  for,  nobody 
would  deny  it,  and  in  some  ways  you  perhaps 
have  been  badly  treated.  But  you've  offered 
us  in  the  last  twenty-one  years  only  a  fraction 
of  what  is  our  right." 

I  inquired  to  whom  in  modern  years  he  con- 
sidered Ireland  owed  most. 

"The  best  Chief  Secretary  we  ever  hacl 
was  Morley;  the  best  Lord  Lieutenant,  Lord 
Spencer." 

Archdeacon  Ryan's  words  grew  in  intensity 
as  he  went  on. 

"If  Irishmen  thought  they  could  get  a  Re- 
181 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

public  now,  they  would  be  glad  of  it.  Given  a 
free  election,  the  majority  of  the  people  would 
undoubtedly  vote  for  remaining  outside  the 
British  Empire.  Not  that  there  is  any  per- 
sonal dislike  of  Englishmen,  but  there  is — and 
always  has  been — hatred  of  British  rule.  We 
are  a  separate  nation.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
be  master  in  your  own  house  ?  ...  If  English 
people  want  to  understand  us,  they  ought  to 
read  more  history." 

He  paused.    Then : 

"Nobody  trusts  the  present  Government. 
The  Partition  Act  is  a  useless  farce;  nobody 
wants  it.  A  terrible  account  lies  at  Sir  Edward 
Carson's  door." 

"But  the  country  has  prospered  under  the 
Union — is  probably  better  off  now  than  it  has 
ever  been?" 

"Farmers  and  shopkeepers  are  well  off  here 
in  King's  Co.,  not  the  common  people." 

The  Archdeacon  went  on  to  say  that  wages 
were  £2  a  week  as  compared  with  14^.  before 
the  war,  but  work  was  not  regular  and  all 
men  had  idle  periods,  especially  agricultural 

182 


TALKS    IN    THE    MIDLANDS 

labourers,  masons,  slaters,  carpenters,  painters. 
There  was  no  building  going  on ;  there  were  a 
hundred  unemployed  in  Birr  alone.  If  wages 
were  two  and  a  half  times  greater,  prices  were 
nearly  the  same,  e.g.  * 

Milk Sd.  a  quart. 

Eggs 3s.  a  dozen. 

Meat 2s.  a  Ib. 

Potatoes 2s.  a  stone. 

Coal  (retail,  per  cwt.)  .  £5  a  ton. 

"Potatoes,"  he  said,  "are  seldom  the  sole  diet 
nowadays.  American  meat  is  nearly  always 
eaten,  though  it  is  of  poor  quality.  Bread  and 
tea  are  staples.  A  certain  amount  of  porter 
is  drunk,  but  there  is  practically  no  drunken- 
ness. 

"Peat,  by  the  time  it  is  dug  and  carried,  is 
nearly  as  dear  as  coal.  Nowadays  only  about 
one  man  in  twenty  has  a  donkey-cart  of  his 
own." 

Questioned  on  another  point: 

"The  story  of  anti-English  propaganda  in 

"This  was  in  May. 
183 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

our  schools  is  a  damnable  lie,"  said  Arch- 
deacon Ryan  emphatically.  "Nor  do  our 
women  interest  themselves  in  politics.  They 
have  too  much  else  to  do." 

"Can  you  suggest,  then,  how  peace  can  be 
brought  to  this  unhappy  country?" 

"If  we  can  get  fair  play  we  shall  not  be  on 
strained  relations  with  our  neighbours,"  was 
the  reply.  "Let  us  set  up  housekeeping  on 
different  lines,  and  we  shall  get  on  very  well. 
But  the  last  five  years  will  leave  a  bad  mark 
in  the  history  of  English  administration." 

"By  that  you  mean ?" 

"The  first  step  to  peace  is  the  control  of  the 
Crown  Forces.  If  you  let  loose  a  lot  of  young 
men  without  character  or  control  to  do  as  they 
will,  of  course  they  get  out  of  hand  and  break 
the  law." 

"ButtheI.R.A.?" 

"The  I.R.A.  is  inspired  by  pure  patriotism. 
The  ideals  of  the  After- War  were  largely  re- 
sponsible for  the  rapid  evolution  of  Sinn  Fein 
out  of  the  old  Nationalism.  Those  ideals  Eng- 

184 


TALKS    IN   THE    MIDLANDS 

land  has  forgotten.    But  those  are  our  ideals 

still." 

Archdeacon  Ryan's  last  word  was: 
"You  cannot  kill  the  soul  of  a  people.    You 

can  no  more  do  so  than  I  can  kill  your  soul." 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE   TULLAMORE   ROAD 

A  MAY  DAY  sun  baked  down  upon  the 
market  square  of  Birr.  It  was  early  yet, 
and  Sunday;  the  square  was  empty  but  for  a 
few  stray  folk  on  their  way  to  Mass.  I  hoped 
to  walk  the  twenty-two  miles  to  Tullamore  by 
tea-time  and,  allowing  for  accidents,  to  cover  at 
least  half  the  distance  in  advance  of  the  noon- 
day heat. 

The  whitewashed  and  dun  houses,  the  new- 
looking  church  on  the  first  straight  stretch  out 
of  the  town  were  quickly  left  behind.  There 
followed  a  bosky  park-like  country,  uphill  and 
down,  the  road  ribboning  ahead  in  long  steady 
gradients.  Green  ridges  rose  on  either  hand, 
masses  of  yellow-prinked  gorse  filled  the  hol- 
lows, hawthorn  in  blossom  and  the  whitish  pink 
of  crab-apple  trees  here  and  there  broke  the 

186 


THE    TULLAMORE    ROAD 

green  of  hedgerows  and  fir-trees.  Green  was 
the  prevailing  tone  of  the  countryside — a  green 
so  vivid  and  fresh  and  dew-sparkling  as  to 
suggest  that  a  brand-new  super-beautiful  world 
had  been  born  in  the  night. 

Mountains  dreamed  in  the  east.  Slieve 
Bloom  dreamed  in  blue-grey  majesty  of  mist,  a 
hazy  mirage  lay  upon  the  peaks,  a  bluish  film 
of  heat  above  the  intervening  country.  After 
the  first  two  or  three  miles  wide,  flat  spaces 
of  brackish-brown  bog  opened  up  between  the 
road  and  the  mountains. 

A  few  people  passed  at  first — three  men  rid- 
ing bicycles  townwards,  a  man  and  a  boy  driv- 
ing a  donkey-cart  with  a  load  of  peat,  a  man 
herding  cows  from  one  field  to  another.  All 
nodded  or  said  "Good  morning."  Two  wild- 
looking  women  came  up  behind  in  a  donkey- 
cart,  followed  by  some  girls  and  men  on  bi- 
cycles, who  turned  down  a  side-road,  being 
apparently  on  their  way  to  Mass  at  a  neigh- 
bouring village. 

Three  miles  out  a  wide,  deep  trench  had  been 
dug  across  the  road — a  trench  just  wide  enough 

187 


A    JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

and  just  deep  enough  to  wreck  any  vehicle  that 
should  attempt  to  compass  it.  A  long,  empty 
stretch  between  the  bog  and  the  hillside  fol- 
lowed, at  the  end  of  which  three  holes,  of  the 
size  and  depth  of  shell-holes,  had  been  dug 
triangular-wise  in  the  roadway,  leaving  a  nar- 
row pathway  for  the  foot-passenger,  but  ensur- 
ing certain  perdition  to  bicycle  or  car. 

The  chief  characteristic  of  the  remaining 
seven  miles  to  Kilcormac  was  its  extreme  lone- 
liness. Only  at  one  place,  some  children  were 
sprawling  outside  a  broken-down  farmstead 
which  otherwise  betrayed  no  semblance  of  life, 
although  one  suspected  that  its  inhabitants 
were  watching  from  the  interior. 

For  miles  at  a  stretch  the  only  sign  or  sound 
was  the  hovering  shadow  and  far-away  whistle 
of  a  sparrow-hawk,  the  "ting-ting"  of  green- 
finches and  chaffinches  in  the  hedgerows,  the 
melancholy  piping  of  redshank  from  the  bog, 
the  cries  of  black-headed  gulls  which,  doubtless 
nesting  beside  some  nearby  tarn,  continually 
swept  and  swooped  above  the  road.  Yellow- 
hammers  vied  in  hue  with  the  brilliant  gorse, 

188 


THE    TULLAMORE    ROAD 

butterflies  flickered  along  the  grassy  border. 
Goats,  cows,  and  donkeys  completely  indepen- 
dent of  control  made  this  their  feeding-ground, 
or  lay  asleep  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

A  group  of  young  men  Standing  in  the  sunny 
Kilcormac  village  street  eyed  me  suspiciously. 
I  stopped  at  the  inn,  the  landlord  of  which,  to 
my  surprise,  served  me  with  a  will,  pressed  me 
to  sit  down  and  rest  in  his  cool  stone  parlour, 
and  finally  refused  my  offer  of  payment. 

I  decided,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  rest, 
to  press  on  and  break  the  backbone  of  the 
journey.  After  crossing  a  bridge  that  spanned 
a  gurgling  rocky  stream,  signs  of  Republican 
activity  became  more  apparent.  Trees  recently 
felled  lay  by  the  roadside,  some  trenches  that 
had  been  dug  had  evidently  been  filled  in.  I 
came  suddenly  up  against  a  huge  barrier. 

This  was  at  a  point  where  the  road  curved 
round  the  flank  of  a  hill  and  was  shaded  by 
trees.  Four  heavy  beech-trunks  interlaced  with 
boughs  had  been  thrown  across  it,  forming  a 
twelve-feet  high  obstacle  not  dissimilar  to, 
though  far  more  substantial  than,  a  fence  at 

189 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Aintree.  To  circumvent  this  I  climbed  through 
a  hedge,  crossing  the  corner  of  a  field,  and 
joined  the  road  through  another  hedge.  The 
white  walls  of  a  farmhouse  gleamed  through 
foliage  at  a  short  distance;  three  hundred 
yards  beyond  the  main  obstacle  a  stiff  fence  of 
boughs  had  been  erected,  and  fifty  yards  be- 
yond this  again  was  a  newly  dug  trench.  Of 
human  or  other  being  there  was  neither  sight 
nor  sound,  the  crow  of  a  cock  being  the  only 
sign  that  the  farmhouse  was  inhabited. 

But  a  mile  further  on  a  shifting  patch  of 
blue  yividly  contrasted  with  the  hillside's  emer- 
ald green.  A  dark-haired  handsome  girl  ac- 
companied by  a  child  came  down  to  the  road- 
side. 

"And  where  might  you  be  malting  for?" 

"Tullamore." 

"Have  you  your  fiddle  with  you?" 

The  girl  looked  meaningly  at  my  rucksack. 

"Are  you  not  the  fiddler  from  Tullamore? 
Will  you  play  us  a  tune?" 

"I  am  travelling  through  Ireland.  Perhaps 
I  shall  write  an  account  in  the  newspapers." 

190 


THE    TULLAMORE    ROAD 

"Is  that  so  ?   Will  you  give  me  one  then  ?" 

To  be  taken  by  the  same  person  for  a  local 
fiddler  and  a  vendor  of  newspapers  is  not  every- 
body's experience.  Our  colloquy  continued  for 
some  minutes.  When  I  continued  my  journey 
the  girl  and  the  child  were  laughing  amazedly, 
still  unable  to  make  me  out.  .  .  . 

After  a  while  I  sat  down  to  rest  near  a  cot- 
tage. An  unkempt  peasant  woman  brought  me 
a  glass  of  milk  and,  as  the  publican  had  done, 
refused  payment.  At  the  back  of  the  dark 
cabin's  interior  I  espied  a  young  man  lying  on 
a  bed.  Half  a  mile  farther  on  a  figure  stood 
on  the  skyline  at  some  distance  from  the  road, 
watching  me  intently.  It  continued  to  watch 
until  I  was  out  of  sight. 

My  feet  began  to  blister,  thirst  increased,  and 
AC  heat  raised  a  mirage  over  everything.  An- 
other four  miles  brought  me  to  a  public-house 
at  cross-roads.  Half  a  dozen  youths  leaning 
against  the  wall  of  the  inn  cast  anything  but 
friendly  glances  at  me  and  answered  my  ques- 
tion as  to  the  distance  to  Tullamore  gruffly.  At 
this  moment  five  young  men  on  bicycles  rode 

191 


A    JOURNEY    IN   IRELAND 

up  from  a  side-road  and,  dismounting,  joined 
in  conversation  with  the  original  group.  From 
the  lowering  glances  directed  at  me,  I  realised 
that  I  was  the  object  of  their  attention,  but 
decided  that  there  was  no  use  in  hanging  about. 
After  walking  a  few  hundred  yards,  I  had  an 
instinctive  intimation  of  some  one  following. 
Sure  enough,  as  I  looked  over  my  shoulder,  a 
man  came  into  sight  round  a  bend  in  the  road. 
I  waited  for  him  to  come  up.  A  middle-aged 
peasant,  he  spoke  with  an  air  of  surly  suspicion 
and  inquired  sarcastically  whether  I  had  had 
much  difficulty  in  getting  along  the  road.  I 
replied  that  I  had  encountered — obstacles.  We 
walked  alongside  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  speak- 
ing laconically  of  the  crops  and  the  weather. 
He  then  turned  into  a  field  and  left  me  with, 
as  I  thought,  a  rather  sinister  grin.  Feeling 
certain  now  that  something  was  "in  the  wind," 
I  plodded  on  apprehensively,  not  looking  back. 
Another  half-mile  brought  me  to  a  place  where 
a  large  fir-wood  on  one  side  of  the  road  faced 
a  bog  on  the  other.  I  suddenly  heard  the  rustle 
of  bicycle-wheels  close  behind  and,  looking 
192 


THE    TULLAMORE    ROAD 

round,  was  confronted  by  the  five  young  men 
on  bicycles. 

"Stop!    Hands  up!" 

They  leapt  off  and  laid  their  bicycles  by  the 
road.  The  leader  of  the  party,  a  dark,  gipsy- 
faced  fellow  of  about  twenty-two,  with  a  mop 
of  matted  hair  and  a  somewhat  ferocious  ex- 
pression, seized  my  arms  with  a  policeman's 
grip,  while  another,  who  closely  resembled  him, 
dragged  off  my  rucksack  with  no  light  hand 
and  passed  it  to  his  companions.  All  the  young 
men  wore  caps  and  dark  suits  of  clothes.  My 
pockets  were  turned  out,  my  purse,  containing 
several  £1  notes  and  other  trifles,  being  taken. 
I  was  then  ordered  to  sit  down  by  the  roadside. 

The  half -hour  that  followed  was  much  less 
than  pleasant.  Innocuous  tourist  though  I 
was,  friend  of  Ireland  though  I  believed  myself 
to  be,  the  little  slip  of  paper  with  which  I  had 
armed  myself  down-country  alone  seemed  to 
stand  between  me  and  a  peremptory  fate.  For 
to  the  rest  of  my  identifications  and  references, 
which  filled  a  large  envelope,  my  captors  paid 
no  attention  whatsoever.  My  eyes  wandered 

193 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

repeatedly  to  the  bog  and  my  thoughts  to  the 
number  of  people  who  had  lately  been  found 
in  bogs  with  brief  notes  attached  to  them.  On 
a  parallel  road  just  a  week  ago  (I  graphically 
recalled)  a  police  inspector  had  been  kidnapped 
and  had  not  been  heard  of  since. 

Meanwhile  the  five  Republicans  were  busy- 
ing themselves  with  my  mundane  possessions. 
The  contents  of  the  rucksack  lay  in  the  road, 
my  papers  (and  incidentally  my  pyjamas)  were 
being  dismembered.  I  could  hear  one  of  the 
party  (who  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  Intelligence 
Officer)  reading  aloud  the  wording  of  my  pre- 
cious slip  of  paper.  Another  seemed  profound- 
ly interested  in  Justin  McCarthy's  "Outline  of 
Irish  History" ;  a  third  was  perusing  the  hiero- 
glyphics in  my  note-book.  A  long  muttered 
conversation  followed,  during  which  the  only 
words  that  caught  my  ear  were  "man"  and 
"road." 

At  last  the  leader  turned  from  the  group. 
"I  think  the  man's  all  right." 

I  was  thereupon  handed  back  the  contents  of 
my  pockets  and  curtly  told  to  count  my  money, 

194 


THE    TULLAMORE    ROAD 

which  (out  of  politeness)  I  omitted  to  do  (but 
which  I  afterwards  did  and  found  correct). 
I  now  noticed  that  the  three  subordinate  mem- 
bers of  the  party  were  decent,  respectable-look- 
ing youths  of  ages  between  eighteen  and 
twenty-one.  They  helped  me  to  put  my  things 
together  and  lifted  my  rucksack  onto  my 
shoulders. 
We  parted  with  mutual  "good  afternoons." 

Two  miles  short  of  Tullamore,  the  bridge 
spanning  a  swift-flowing  little  river  had  been 
blown  up — so  thoroughly  demolished  at  the 
centre,  in  fact,  as  to  leave  a  chasm  too  wide 
to  jump.  The  only  alternative  was  to  wade  the 
stream — no  unpleasant  task  for  swollen  feet — 
and  to  make  a  detour  through  some  birch 
woods  to  a  point  where  it  was  possible  to  join 
the  road  again. 

That  was  the  last  physical  obstacle.  But, 
walking  into  Tullamore  rather  conspicuously 
dusty  and  a  traveller,  battery  after  battery  of 
coldly  hostile  glances  were  directed  at  me  by 
men  who  scowled  as  I  passed,  scowled  after 
195 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

me",  scowled  up  at  the  window  of  the  inn  where 
I  sat  at  dinner.  Everybody  seemed  to  see  in 
an  English  stranger  a  potential  spy.  At  first  I 
was  inclined  to  put  this  feeling  down  to  an 
undue  sensitiveness  induced  by  the  events  of 
the  day;  but  the  veracity  of  it  was  confirmed 
next  morning  when  I  was  openly  reviled  by  an 
apparently  sober  and  respectable  Irishwoman 
on  the  railway  station  platform.  The  first  re- 
marks that  caught  my  ear  were :  "I  said  I  will 
not  be  walked  over.  I  can  only  die  once,  and 
I'll  be  happy  to  give  my  life  for  Ireland."  The 
lady's  choicest  sentiments  then  became  unprint- 
able ;  suffice  it  to  say  that  everything  not  good 
enough  for  Irishmen  was  "good  enough  for 
English  dogs,"  and  that  the  majority  of  her 
sentences  ended  with  the  exhortation,  "Shoot 
me  if  you  like!  Yes — trample  on  my  dead 
body!" 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE   ROAD   TO   ULSTER 

OWING  to  a  recent  outrage,  curfew  at 
Tullamore  was  at  9  p.m.  Up  to  within 
a  few  minutes  of  this  hour  the  streets  were  full 
of  people  taking  the  air.  When,  however,  two 
lines  of  Black  and  Tans  appeared  advancing 
concentrically  along  the  principal  streets  with 
rifles  at  the  trail,  everybody  fled  homeward. 
Only  here  and  there  impudent  young  women 
defied  the  majesty  and  might  of  the  Crown  up 
to  and  even  beyond  the  last  moment,  answering 
stern  admonitions  to  "get  home  in  quick  time" 
with  laughter  and  sallies  of  wit.  That  it  was 
not  altogether  a  laughing  matter,  however,  the 
sharp  "crack"  of  a  rifle  presently  attested. 

On  Monday,  May  2nd,  I  took  train  to  Clara, 
and  thence  resumed  the  road  to  Mullingar. 
This  twenty-two  mile  walk  was  uneventful  ex- 

197 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

cept  for  losing  the  way  and  straying  into  the 
Kilbeggan  district. 

A  succession  of  long,  narrow,  and  very  lonely 
lanes  brought  me  once  again  onto  the  main 
road  near  Castletown. 

There  were  occasional  distractions.  Two 
boys  raced  me  for  a  couple  of  miles  in  a 
donkey-cart,  their  handicap  being  an  ass  that 
had  made  up  its  mind  to  proceed  in  the  op- 
posite direction,  mine  increasingly  sore  and 
painful  feet.  The  attitude  of  such  people  as  I 
did  meet  was  sometimes  shy  and  suspicious, 
more  often  friendly — never  actually  hostile. 
At  a  wineshop-cum-grocer's  at  Horseleap  they 
furnished  bread,  butter,  and  jam,  and  would 
accept  payment  only  for  a  drink  of  ale.  A  little 
farther  on  I  came  upon  a  lonely  cottage  evi- 
dently inhabited,  but  closed  and  silent  as  the 
grave.  Being  uncertain  of  the  way  owing  to 
an  embarrassing  lack  of  sign-posts,  I  knocked 
at  the  door.  A  faint  rustling  sound  followed, 
but  not  until  some  minutes  had  elapsed  did  a 
woman  show  a  scared  face  at  the  window  and 

inquire  what  I  wanted. 
198 


THE    ROAD    TO    ULSTER 

"Am  I  on  the  road  to  Castletown,  please?" 

She  appeared  at  the  door,  holding  by  the 
hand  a  very  small  boy. 

"We  don't  see  many  strangers  here,"  she 
explained.  "And  I'm  all  alone." 

The  singular  absence  of  life  throughout  this 
tract  of  country,  and  indeed  throughout  all  the 
country  districts  of  Ireland,  was  very  striking. 
The  regulations  restricting  the  use  of  motor- 
cars were,  of  course,  mainly  responsible  for 
this,  the  only  motor-vehicles  encountered  being 
bakers'  and  provision  vans  and  an  occasional 
Government  or  County  Council  hauling-trac- 
tor.  The  country  itself  was  wild  and  steeply 
undulating.  There  were  occasional  crops  of 
barley  and  oats,  but  the  landscape  consisted, 
for  the  most  part,  of  pasture  grazed  by  cows 
and  geese.  When  the  sun  came  out  between 
showers,  gorse,  commons,  bog,  stone  walls, 
patches  of  bracken,  hillsides  tangled  with 
growth  of  furze,  fir,  and  rowan,  larch-woods 
and  spring-fed  streams,  melted  in  a  glorious 
confusion  of  haphazard  colour,  yellows,  blues, 
greens,  browns,  and  deepest  indigo  of  distance, 

199 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

offering  an  impression  of  extraordinary  con- 
fusion and  charm. 

At  Mullingar  the  May  cattle  fair  had  just 
ended,  and  the  beasts  were  being  driven  away 
by  their  ragged  herds;  only  a  few  lean  red 
bullocks  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  main  street 
until  such  time  as  their  keepers  should  finish 
regaling  themselves  in  the  public-houses.  That 
drink  flowed  pretty  freely  on  these  occasions 
was  announced  to  all-comers  by  a  gentleman 
in  rags  who  stood  throughout  the  whole  of 
one  day  on  the  curb  of  the  pavement,  alter- 
nately shouting,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
and  remonstrating  with  himself  for  his  con- 
duct. To  watch  him  in  his  happiness  was  a 
joy  in  itself.  Whenever  a  grown-up  lady 
passed  he  bowed  with  extreme  deference;  but 
if  it  was  a  young  girl  he  winked,  a  roguish 
look  came  into  his  eye,  he  sniggered.  Any 
friend  who  passed  he  invited  to  join  him  in  a 
glass;  and  if  nobody  passed  he  shouted  to  the 
world  at  large  that  it  was  glorious  to  be 
drunk,  that  it  was  ecstasy — or  words  to  this 
effect.  .  .  . 

200 


THE    ROAD    TO   ULSTER 

Mullingar,  politically,  is  one  of  the  quietest 
towns  in  Ireland. 

I  learnt  this  from  John  P.  Hayden,  twenty- 
one  years  Nationalist  Member  of  Parliament 
for  South  Roscommon,  a  leading  resident  of 
the  town.  An  acute  and  nowadays  dispassion- 
ate observer  of  current  politics,  Mr.  Hayden 
was  in  some  ways  better  able  to  estimate  the 
aspirations  and  ambitions  of  his  countrymen 
at  Mullingar  than  had  been  William  O'Brien 
at  Mallow. 

He  spoke  at  any  rate  with  the  calm  deliber- 
ation of  a  man  who  looks  back  upon  the  past 
with  regret  but  without  rancour.  His  point  of 
view  disclosed  itself  in  the  very  first  sentence 
of  a  long  conversation. 

"If  I  did  not  think  the  Irish  people  would 
be  satisfied  to-day  with  self-government  within 
the  Empire  my  whole  life  would  be  a  lie." 

I  asked  him  kindly  to  diagnose  the  present 
state  of  the  country. 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  Ireland  is  behind  the 
Sinn  Fein  movement,"  was  his  reply,  "though 
201 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

five  years  ago  the  names  of  Eamon  de  Valera, 
Arthur  Griffith,  and  Michael  Collins  were  un- 
known, even  to  Irishmen.  Nevertheless,  I 
regard  this  as  one  of  the  most  tragic  periods 
in  our  history.  It  has  been  a  history — of  mis- 
takes. The  roots  of  Irish  discontent  never 
really  lay  in  poverty  but  in  a  desire  for  free- 
dom— that  is  the  mistake  England  made.  Na- 
tionalism linked  the  Land  Question  with  the 
National  Question — the  people  to  become  own- 
ers. That  is  the  mistake  we  made." 

It  was  natural,  perhaps  that  we  should  dwell 
on  the  past. 

"Lecky's  'History  of  Ireland*  has  made 
many  a  rebel.  You  say  'Ireland  is  slow  to  for- 
get,' but  our  wrongs  are  not  righted,  so  we 
haven't  a  chance  to  forget.  Half  a  century  of 
constitutional  agitation  for  Home  Rule  has 
failed  to  obtain  it.  The  General  Elections  of 
74,  '85,  '86,  '92,  '10,  and  '18— all  gave  a  clear 
Irish  verdict  for  Home  Rule,  a  verdict  which 
has  been  endorsed  by  our  own  and  foreign 
peoples  in  other  lands.  Isaac  Butt  called  a 
Conference  of  Protestants  and  landowners,  and 

202 


THE    ROAD    TO    ULSTER 

defined  Home  Rule.  Parnell  kept  down  the 
physical  force  element  and  insisted  on  Consti- 
tutional methods.  The  present  physical  move- 
ment is  purely  patriotic  and  largely  results 
from  a  conviction  of  treachery." 

"What  actually  brought  about  the  sudden 
change?" 

"The  bitterness  of  repeated  disappointments 
and  the  formation  of  the  Ulster  Volunteers  by 
Carson — one  of  the  greatest  enemies  of  his 
country,  let  me  say.  It  was  Carson's  men  who 
set  the  example  of  raising  an  armed  force. 
Sinn  Fein  was  delighted  at  the  opportunity  of 
following  suit,  and  at  one  Sinn  Fein  meeting 
three  cheers  were  given  for  the  Ulster  leader ! 
'If  they,  why  not  we?'  was  the  cry.  Thysical 
force  to  meet  physical  force!'  The  difference 
is  that  Carson  professed  loyalty  and  prepared 
rebellion,  while  we  declared  ourselves  rebels 
and  took  the  risk.  Ireland  was  furious  at  Car- 
son being  made  Attorney-General.  The  most 
prominent  abettors  of  drilling  and  importing 
arms  were  on  the  Bench !" 

"Who  do  you  consider  to  have  been  the  best 

203 


A    JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

Chief  Secretary  since  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury?" 

"Birrell.  Birrell  was  the  only  Chief  Secre- 
tary we've  ever  had  who  didn't  think  he  had  a 
right  to  be  here.  He  set  to  work  to  be  the  last 
of  his  tribe,  and  he  very  nearly  succeeded." 

"AndBalfour?" 

"Balfour's  administration  resembled  Green- 
wood's. But  Balfour  was  respected." 

"Do  you  think  anti-English  propaganda  in 
the  schools  has  had  much  to  do  with  the  pres- 
ent state  of  affairs?" 

"Not  in  my  experience.  It  certainly  did  not 
in  my  day." 

"Or  Bolshevism— so-called?" 

"Not  with  Sinn  Fein.  It  may  have  sup- 
ported the  Irish  Labour  Party.  Sinn  Fein  and 
Labour  work  hand-in-hand  towards  a  separate 
ideal." 

"Or  religious  differences?" 

"There  are  no  religious  differences  in  the 
Midlands  and  South.  Sir  Hamar  Green- 
wood's statement  to  the  effect  that  'the  minor- 

204 


THE   ROAD    TO   ULSTER 

ity  have  been  shot  in  Ireland  because  they  are 
Protestants  is  absolutely  scandalous." 

"The  country  is  exceptionally  prosperous  at 
the  present  time?" 

"People  are  better  off  than  before  the  war, 
but  enterprise  is  stopped  and  labour  dearer 
than  two  years  ago.  The  minimum  wage  for 
agricultural  labourers  has  just  been  raised  to 
£2  a  week."  * 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  the  present  Ad- 
ministration?" 

"Nobody  trusts  Lloyd  George.  Politically 
he  is  not  straight.  As  for  Greenwood,  he's — 
preposterous." 

"And  the  Government  of  Ireland  Act?" 

"No  good  in  its  present  form.  The  South- 
ern Irish  see  in  it  two  things:  (1)  Partition; 

*  This  was  the  actual  rate  in  May,  1921,  which  has  since 
been  raised  to  45s.  a  week  in  Westmeath,  with  a  demand  pend- 
ing for  50j.  At  a  meeting  of  the  Agricultural  Wages  Board 
held  in  Dublin  on  May  4th,  1921,  an  order  was  made  fixing 
the  minimum  rates  of  wages  for  male  workers  over  20  years 
of  age  at  34j.  in  Group  I.,  and  32s.  in  Group  II.,  the  inclusive 
rate  for  cowmen,  cattlemen,  yardmen,  and  full-time  herds  to 
be  37s.  6d.  in  Group  I.,  and  35.?.  6d.  in  Group  II.  The  maxi- 
mum values  to  be  placed  on  board  and  lodgings  in  the  case  of 
adult  male  workers  was  fixed  at  16s.  6d.  and  14$.  6d.  respec- 
tively in  both  groups. 

205 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

(2)  Plunder.  It  divides  the  country  on  sec- 
tarian lines  and  imposes  a  huge  tribute  on  us. 
Ireland,  mind  you,  has  to  pay  for  all  services, 
some  of  which  she  will  not  control  herself, 
plus  eighteen  millions  of  money.  If  you  say 
that  we  ought  to  pay  our  share  of  the  Imperial 
War  Debt,  as  Canada  and  Australia  are  doing, 
my  answer  is  that  the  choice  of  war  or  peace 
was  not  left  to  us  but  it  was  to  them.  Then, 
is  it  fair  that  six  counties  should  have  the 
same  representation  as  twenty-six,  as  in  the 
Council  for  all  Ireland?  Another  extraordi- 
nary thing  about  the  Act  is  that  there  should 
be  a  Senate  in  each  Parliament  nominated  by 
the  Crown  in  the  case  of  the  South  and  elected 
by  the  dominant  party  in  the  case  of  the 
North?'* 

"You   condemn  the   Government's  present 
policy  ?" 

"The  Black  and  Tan  business  has  sunk  deep 
already  into  the  national  mind.  But  Irishmen 
forget  quickly  if  they  are  allowed  to,  and,  given 
a  generous  settlement,  the  whole  wretched 
affair  would  probably  soon  be  forgotten." 
206 


THE    ROAD    TO   ULSTER 

"The  Irish  have  a  curious  knack,  though,  of 
forgetting  and  remembering  again  a  century 
or  two  later?" 

"Only  if  recollection  is  forced  upon  them; 
only  if  their  wrongs  are  constantly  rising  up 
and  hitting  them  in  the  face.  The  Irish  do  not 
dislike  the  English  so  much  as  the  English  gov- 
erning classes  who  have  wrought  all  the  mis- 
chief. But  we  hold  the  English  people  respon- 
sible for  the  present,  disastrous  policy." 

"What  do  you  consider  the  shortest  way  to 
peace?" 

"A  lot  might  be  accomplished  by  the  leaders 
coming  together.  You  never  find  t'other  fel- 
low so  bad  as  you  imagine  him.  Create  an 
atmosphere  by  a  real  offer." 

"Is  a  man  like  Lord  Derby  welcome  as  a 
mediator?" 

"Lord  Derby  is  a  good  man.  You  can  trust 
him." 

"And  what  would  you  call  a  'real  offer*?" 

"A  definite  offer  of  Dominion  Home  Rule 
should  be  made  by  the  British  Government  and 
it  would  probably  be  accepted,  though  this  is 

207 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

less  likely  than  would  have  been  the  case  four 
years  ago." 

"And  Ulster?" 

"It  may  still  be  possible  to  bring  Ulster  into 
a  Dublin  Parliament.  It  could  have  been  done 
at  the  close  of  the  Convention  early  in  1918. 
The  Ulster  representatives  might  then  have 
brought  the  North  into  the  settlement  by  say- 
ing, 'We  must  give  way.  This  thing  is  forced 
on  us.  We'll  make  the  best  of  Home  Rule.' 
But  the  eighteen  Ulster  members  were  only 
delegates,  not  plenipotentiaries,  and  had  to 
carry  all  questions  for  decision  to  their  leaders, 
who  were  outside  the  spirit  and  'atmosphere' 
of  the  Conference." 

"In  your  opinion  the  demand  for  an  inde- 
pendent Republic  is  not  final,  then?" 

"Ireland  would  be  content  to  remain  within 
the  British  Empire  if  given  a  generous  meas- 
ure of  self-government  analogous  to  Dominion 
Home  Rule." 

There  seemed  no  special  purpose  to  be  served 
by  tramping  through  the  grazing  lands  of 

208 


THE    ROAD    TO    ULSTER 

Meath  to  Navan  and  Athboy,  where  I  was  in- 
formed people  in  the  thinly-populated  districts 
only  want  to  settle  down  under  a  measure  of 
Home  Rule.  My  feet,  moreover,  were  in  a 
parlous  state  owing  to  the  extreme  dryness  of 
the  roads  and  the  longish  distances  covered 
without  much  opportunity  of  hardening  them. 

I  thus,  on  May  3rd,  took  train  for  the  North- 
east, being  entertained  throughout  the  journey 
by  one  of  those  merry  old  Irishmen  who  per  se 
proclaim  "Ireland  a  nation." 

All  the  way  he  talked,  laughed,  and  sang 
songs,  telling  one  anecdote  after  another,  tell- 
ing of  how  he  used  to  play  the  cornet  in  the 
local  band,  and  of  how  his  father  had  informed 
him  (early)  that  "he'd  a  voice  like  a  crow  or  a 
bridge  falling." 

He  related,  too,  with  ardour  the  story  of  the 
intoxicated  man  from  Portadown  who  found 
himself  in  a  railway-carriage  with  a  priest. 

"To  Hell  with  the  Pope !"  shouted  the  Ulster- 
man  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

The  priest  looked  shocked. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  my  good  man?"  he 

209 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

gently  remonstrated.  "Do  you  know  His  Holi- 
ness, because  I  can  assure  you  he  is  a  very 
nice,  kindly  old  gentleman,  who  never  did  any- 
body any  harm." 

"Well,  he's  got  a  damned  bad  name  in  Por- 
tadown!"  was  the  reply. 

"That's  your  narrow-minded  Northern 
bigots!"  cried  my  companion,  roaring  at  his 
own  joke,  "the  men  you're  going  to  meet." 

He  presently  opened  a  Dublin  paper  and 
became  serious. 

"Ah !  John  Traynor — they've  hanged  him." 
He  took  off  his  hat.  "He's  joined  the  souls  of 
those  who've  died  for  Ireland." 


Dundalk  in  Co.  Louth  is  a  dirty  red-and- 
white  town  with  a  considerable  tanning  and 
leather  industry.  It  is  also  a  hotbed  of  Sinn 
Fein.  And  it  was  here  I  joined  the  high  road 
from  Dublin  to  Belfast. 

I  stayed  one  night.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
that  the  town  was  at  this  time  what  is  uncom- 
fortably called  in  Ireland  "waking  up,"  which 

210 


THE    ROAD    TO    ULSTER 

meant  that  agents  of  the  I.R.A.  had  made  their 
appearance  in  the  locality.  Their  attentions 
so  far  had  been  confined  mainly  to  inflicting 
punishment  for  infringements  of  the  boycott. 
Only  a  day  or  two  before  rolls  of  Belfast  cloth 
had  been  taken  out  of  a  shop  and  burned  in 
the  main  street.  There  had  also  been  a  raid 
on  a  bank,  and  one  or  two  attacks  on  police 
barracks.  In  the  ten  miles  to  Newry,  I  found 
that  over  four  of  them  the  telegraph  wires 
had  been  systematically  cut;  and  where  the 
beechwoods  fall  steep  to  the  road  at  Ravens- 
dale  a  bridge  had  been  damaged  and  the  road 
holed.  A  fine  sporting  country,  this  East 
Louth,  with  its  gay  streams  alive  with  trout, 
its  great  woodlands  teeming  with  wild  pheas- 
ants, its  stony,  heathery  mountains,  the  worst 
walking  in  the  world,  where  a  man  may  climb 
and  stumble  all  day  long  and  be  alone  with 
the  crow  of  the  cock  grouse,  the  swoop  of  the 
peregrine-falcon,  and  the  swift-falling  mists. 
A  paradise  of  wild  life,  for  the  blue  hare  and 
the  deer  are  found  high  on  the  mountain, 
herons  and  kingfishers  haunt  the  lower 

211 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

streams,  the  hillsides  swarm  with  rabbits,  and 
when  early  winter  comes  the  woodcock  comes, 
too,  to  every  mossy  wood  and  copse.  Nor  is 
that  all.  Carlingford  way,  among  the  moun- 
tains, you  have  vast  stretches  of  snipe-bog  and 
reedy  pools  where  gulls  and  wild  duck  nest; 
stretches  of  marsh  and  sand,  the  home  of 
waders  innumerable,  extend  to  the  verges  of 
the  sea.  .  .  . 

I  came  to  Newry  late  in  a  stormy  afternoon. 
Rain  swept  up  at  dusk  and,  driving  over  the 
grey  rooftops,  lashed  the  mountain-tops  of 
Mourne.  The  Black  and  Tans  were  more  than 
usually  active  after  curfew — there  had  been 
trouble  out  towards  Carlingford — and  every 
few  minutes  the  big  Crossley  cars  with  their 
dark  green  freights  rushed  past,  firing  occa- 
sional shots  as  they  went. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
THE   GATES   OF   ULSTER 

NEWRY  is  the  gate  of  Ulster.  .  .  . 
In  a  garden  an  old  man  paced  slowly 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  rain  or  fine,  like 
the  ghostly  lovers  in  Thomas  Hardy's  poem. 
He  was,  they  informed  me,  father  of  sons  who 
last  week  had  taken  part  in  a  bombing-attack 
on  the  police  in  the  main  street  and  now  lay  in 
Belfast  Prison  awaiting  trial.  That  was  not 
all.  Revolvers  found  in  the  father's  house  had 
drawn  prosecution  and  a  fine  on  himself  for 
their  delinquencies. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  numbers  of  men  stood 
about  the  ugly  streets  with  nothing  to  do. 
That  the  political  complexion  of  the  town  was 
almost  exactly  half-and-half,  with  a  slight  Sinn 
Fein  preponderance,  was  to  be  expected;  that 
more  than  half  the  population  was  unemployed, 
less  so.  One  of  a  group  of  men  standing  on 

213 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

the  quay  informed  me  that  only  one  flax-fac- 
tory was  working,  that  there  was  no  demand 
for  linen,  and  that  no  ships  were  entering  or 
leaving  the  port,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Liverpool  steamer.  Half  the  male  population 
was  living  on  its  unemployment  dole. 

I  entered  the  Roman  Catholic  Cathedral  and 
found  it  crowded.  Walking  down  the  street, 
the  old  scowls  met  you  at  one  corner,  but  before 
you  had  reached  the  next  a  young  man  of 
whom  you  had  asked  the  way  came  up  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  apparently  out  of  sheer 
partiality  for  English  society.  What  did  I 
think  of  curfew  at  nine?  Wasn't  it  a  shame, 
but  it  didn't  affect  him,  for  he  lived  at  Cam- 
lough  just  outside  the  curfew  area,  etc.  .  .  . 

That  evening  I  talked  over  dinner  with  a 
Dublin  Castle  official  employed  on  local  busi- 
ness, who  gave  a  not  uninteresting  summary 
of  the  last  seven  years  in  Ireland.  The  failure 
of  the  1914  Home  Rule  Act  (he  said)  was  the 
direct  cause  of  the  1916  Rebellion.  Up  till 
about  the  spring  of  1915  there  was  real  enthu- 
siasm for  the  war  in  Ireland,  men  were  ready 

214 


THE    GATES    OF    ULSTER 

to  join  in  thousands.  He  mentioned  a  review 
of  National  Volunteers  before  Mr.  Redmond 
held  in  Phoenix  Park  late  in  1914  at  which 
twenty  thousand  men  had  paraded,  ready  and 
able  to  defend  their  native  shores.  From  the 
first,  however,  the  War  Office,  acting  on  the 
principle,  "We  don't  want  too  many  Irish 
troops,"  mishandled  and  discouraged  popular 
feeling.  Then  the  people  began  to  realise  they 
had  been  duped,  or  thought  they  had,  over  the 
Act,  and  that  reaction  set  in  which  rose  to  a 
crescendo  in  the  Rebellion. 

Lord  French  came  to  Ireland  on  May  6th, 
1918,  with  a  policy  of  reconstruction.  He  came 
also  to  fight  the  anti-Conscription  League, 
which  in  spite  of  him  triumphed. 

The  first  murder  took  place  on  January  21st, 
1919  (the  anniversary,  curiously  enough,  of 
the  murders  of  Burke  and  Lord  Frederick 
Cavendish),  when  two  policemen,  McDonnell 
and  O'Connell,  were  killed  at  Solloghodbeg, 
Co.  Tipperary,  while  escorting  a  load  of  ex- 
plosives for  blasting  purposes.  There  had 
previously  been  a  campaign  of  intimidation  by 

215 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Sinn  Fein,  followed  by  a  crop  of  R.I.C.  res- 
ignations. 

"It  was  about  this  time,"  my  acquaintance 
said,  "or  a  little  earlier  that  I  heard  de  Valera 
speak  in  East  Clare.  There  was  wild  enthu- 
siasm at  first,  but  as  a  speaker  he  was  curiously 
unimpressive.  Within  ten  minutes  the  meet- 
ing was  half-empty." 

Reviewing  Ireland's  long  line  of  Chief  Sec- 
retaries since  he  had  been  at  the  Castle,  he 
gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  Mr.  Balfour  was  the 
only  one  who  could  have  handled  the  present 
situation  with  any  prospect  of  success. 

I  questioned  him  as  to  the  future  of  Ulster. 

"The  Northern  Parliament  will  go  on  func- 
tioning, but  it  will  not  be  able  to  do  so  success- 
fully without  the  Southern.  The  boycott  will 
become  a  very  serious  matter  for  Belfast. 
Eventually,  in  my  belief,  a  bargain  will  have  to 
be  struck  whereby  the  North  will  enter  a  Na- 
tional Parliament  under  safeguards.  That  is 
the  only  way  to  peace." 

Next  morning  I  set  out  upon  the  last  stage 

of  the  road  to  Belfast.    The  thirteen  miles  to 
216 


THE    GATES    OF    ULSTER 

Banbridge  are  signally  dull.  The  road,  flat 
or  undulating,  leads  through  grass  fields  di- 
vided by  stone  walls,  with  occasional  heaths 
and  commons.  The  villages  are  whitewashed 
or  of  grey  stone,  a  little  more  substantial  per- 
haps than  the  villages  farther  South:  there 
were  fewer,  at  any  rate,  of  those  melancholy, 
broken-down  cottages  which  are  there  so  fre- 
quently seen.  I  passed  through  two  villages 
and  by  a  little  reed-engirdled  lake,  lively  with 
the  flights  and  cries  of  moorhens,  and  of  nest- 
ing wild  duck.  The  mountains  of  Mourne  were 
never  far  distant.  There  were  no  obstacles  on 
this  road,  no  tree-trunks,  holes  or  trenches; 
there  was  indeed  no  traffic  except  a  couple  of 
motor-cars,  one  or  two  traps,  and  three  or  four 
bicyclists  during  the  whole  journey. 

And  the  complexion  of  the  people  changed. 
A  squarer,  sturdier,  fairer  race  populated  the 
villages.  The  dark  eyes  and  hair,  the  swarthy 
complexion,  the  striking  beauty  and  features 
of  the  Southern  peasants  seemed  to  give  way 
to  a  ruddier  complexion,  blue  eyes,  flaxen  hair. 
The  manner  and  the  accent  changed  north  of 

217 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

Newry,  taking  on  a  certain  brusqueness  and 
directness;  a  lingering  on  the  r's  was  notice- 
able that  had  more  of  Glasgow  in  it  than  of 
Dublin.  Yes,  the  human  type  was  definitely 
different. 

And  to  leave  Newry  by  the  northward  way 
was  to  cast  another  look  back  into  the  turbid 
history  of  the  last  eight  years.  There  is  a 
five-acre  field  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town — 
used,  I  think,  as  a  sports'  ground — where 
assembled  one  September  day  of  1913  a  great 
concourse  of  Ulstermen.  Bands  were  playing, 
and  on  one  side  of  the  ground  a  large  wooden 
stand  was  filled  with  the  chief  men  and  women 
of  Co.  Down.  Before  this  stand  thousands  of 
Volunteers  were  drawn  up.  Now  their  leader 
arrived,  and  the  whole  assembly  broke  into 
great  cheering;  there  is  a  glimpse  of  Sir  Ed- 
ward Carson  lying  back  rather  wearily  in  a 
motor-car,  acknowledging  the  salutations  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand.  F.  E.  Smith  one  can  recall 
very  distinctly  —  leaning  forward,  curiously 
youthful  in  appearance,  beating  out  his  points 
on  the  rostrum  in  front  of  him.  Captain  James 

218 


THE    GATES    OF    ULSTER 

Craig  is  less  vivid,  but  seeing  him  at  Holywood 
again  one  recaptures  an  impression  of  impreg- 
nable stolidity.  The  old  Lord  Londonderry 
was  there,  his  powerful  wife,  the  old  Lord  Kil- 
morey,  the  Duke  of  Abercorn,  and  many  oth- 
ers. In  the  golden  September  sunshine,  amid 
the  half -circle  of  mountains,  the  Ulster  Volun- 
teers marching  past  their  political  chiefs  made 
a  brave  effect.  At  the  close  a  solemn  shout  was 
raised  for  the  pledge  of  the  Covenant  which 
should  bind  all  Irish  Unionists  together.  .  .  . 
Ironic  echoes  answer  but — history  draws  a 
veil  over  the  years  between. 

If  Newry  is  the  gate  of  Ulster,  Banbridge 
is  quite  definitely  Ulster*  It  is  an  outpost  of 
Belfast. 

The  principal  industry  of  Banbridge  is  linen. 
Here,  and  hereabouts,  is  grown  the  finest  flax 
in  the  world;  here,  too,  it  is  bleached,  woven 
into  linen,  and  despatched  to  Belfast. 

Before  the  war,  the  largest  quantity  of  flax 
was  exported  to  Germany.  Owing,  however, 
to  depression  in  the  industry  caused  by  lack  of 

219 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

raw  material,  high  prices  on  account  of  high 
wages,  and  consequently  reduced  demand, 
numbers  of  hands,  as  at  Newry,  were  out  of 
work.  Two  thousand  five  hundred  were  re- 
ported to  be  living  on  unemployment  pay 
within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles. 

Within  a  radius  of  three  miles,  fifty  or  sixty 
families  had  emigrated  in  as  many  months,  the 
reason  given  being  general  depression,  unem- 
ployment, and  the  uncertainty  of  the  future. 

I  took  a  walk  round  the  town,  the  neighbour- 
hood of  which  is  ugly  and  flat.  A  crowd  stood 
on  the  bridge  that  spans  the  curious  steep  dip 
in  the  centre  of  the  main  street.  A  young  man 
was  holding  forth  on  the  subject  of  his  soul's 
salvation. 

The  best  commentary  on  this  piece  of 
egotism  seemed  to  be  a  burnt-out  house  which 
gapes  on  the  main  street,  and  down  a  side-street 
two  more.  These  are  the  work  of  the  Protes- 
tant population  of  Banbridge  who,  last  July 
year,  wreaked  their  vengeance  on  Sinn  Fein 
after  the  murder  of  a  native  of  the  town,  Con- 
stabulary-Captain Smith,  in  Cork  city. 
220 


THE    GATES    OF   ULSTER 

One  who  took  part  in  the  affair  said: 

"I  was  on  the  fire-brigade  the  first  night 
and  worked  hard.  But  when  somebody  cut 
the  hose  I  chucked  it.  Next  night  we  burnt 
the  rest" 

It  was  easy  to  make  friends  in  Banbridge. 
Slowly  at  first,  and  then  with  a  dawning  and 
pleasant  consciousness,  the  friendliness  of  the 
place  imposed  itself  upon  one.  An  English- 
man feels  he  is  liked  there,  trusted,  welcomed. 

Two  friends  in  especial  I  made — partners 
in  a  motor  business.  These  hospitable  gentle- 
men entertained  me  at  the  back  of  their  shop, 
and  after  dark  insisted  on  running  the  police 
gauntlet  to  a  nearby  public  house,  where  they 
procured  a  bottle  of  whisky. 

In  a  small  store-room  or  office,  lit  by  a  can- 
dle and  surrounded  by  spare  tyres,  tins  of  oil, 
and  patent  valve-lifters,  we  talked  far  into  the 
small  hours.  What  politicians  they  were! 
Ardent,  angry,  determined  but  not  bigoted. 
The  cleverer  one,  a  sandy-haired  freckly  fel- 
low, said: 

"We  won't  go  under  any  Dublin  Parliament. 

221 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

What  they  want  is  our  money.  It's  all  very 
well  to  talk  about  safeguards  now,  but  this  is 
a  question  that  involves  our  whole  future. 
Once  give  our  freedom  over  to  Catholics  and 
we  shall  not  get  it  back.  The  thing's  impos- 
sible. We  never  wanted  the  present  Act,  but, 
rebels  and  murderers  as  they  are,  we'll  meet 
them  on  the  Council  of  Ireland,  and  when  they 
show  they  know  how  to  behave  themselves, 
perhaps  we'll  think  it  over." 

Again,  said  he : 

"Our  economic  relations,  you  must  remem- 
ber, are  absolutely  bound  up  with  England. 
You  are  our  market  for  cattle,  tobacco,  and  to 
a  certain  extent  linen.  We  get  from  you  mo- 
tor-cars, agricultural  machinery,  and  most  of 
the  necessities.  For  us  there's  no  other  suitable 
market." 

"What  about  the  boycott?" 

"That  hits  the  big  Belfast  wholesale  firms, 
no  doubt,  but  not  the  main  industries  of  Ulster, 
which  are  export.  Very  little,  bar  imported 
stuff,  goes  South." 

222 


THE    GATES    OF   ULSTER 

The  other  fellow's  contribution — a  fine, 
sturdy  type  of  Ulsterman — was: 

"Craig's  a  great  man.  In  some  ways  he's  a 
better  man  for  us  at  the  present  moment  than 
Carson.  He  was  born  among  us,  you  see,  and 
he's  always  lived  here.  He's  more  in  touch 
perhaps  with  the  practical  occupations  and 
aspirations  of  the  people.  Carson,  after  all,  is 
a  Galway  man.  We  absolutely  trust  Craig, 
and  if  he  decides  it's  O.K.  to  meet  the  Repub- 
licans— well,  it  is." 

"Politics  are  the  curse  of  Ulster,"  com- 
mented his  friend,  throwing  away  a  cigarette- 
end.  "We  talk,  talk,  talk  politics  morning, 
noon,  and  night.  But  if  necessary  we'll  fight." 


CHAPTER   XV 
BELFAST 

IT  was  evening.  .  .  . 
The  Lough  lay  glooming  in  an  uncer- 
tain light.  One  or  two  yachts  and  small  fish- 
ing-smacks rode  upon  grey  waters.  The 
Liverpool  steamer  made  her  way  seawards  on 
the  ebb-tide.  Over  yonder  the  hills  of  Antrim 
frowned  rainf ully  across  the  smoke  of  Belfast. 

There  is  a  promenade  between  the  railway 
line  and  the  shores  of  the  lough  at  Holywood. 
Here,  on  the  evening  of  Friday,  May  6th, 
young  couples  strolled,  inhaling  the  salt  and 
seaweed  air.  A  little  inland,  on  low,  wooded 
hills,  white,  substantial  villas  peeped  through 
the  foliage  of  gardens. 

Leaving  the  station,  I  found  an  avenue  of 
chestnuts  leading  up  to  the  little  suburb  itself. 
Half-way  along  this,  on  the  left-hand  side,  a 

224 


BELFAST 

small  crowd  stood  outside  a  building  of  the 
plain,  sensible  sort  so  liberally  affected  by  Bel- 
fast. There  was  cheering,  and  a  motor-car 
was  approaching  at  a  foot's  pace,  accompanied 
by  an  enthusiastic  throng.  The  car  stopped. 
There  was  another  outburst  of  cheering;  from 
the  car  stepped  a  broad,  thick-set  man  with  an 
expansive,  good-humoured  face.  It  was  Sir 
James  Craig. 

He  shook  a  policeman's  hand  with  a  grip  so 
hearty  as  to  make  the  worthy  fellow  wince. 
Followed  by  Lady  Craig,  he  entered  the  Hall. 

It  was  packed.  It  was  packed  with  men  and 
women  in  almost  equal  proportions,  who  rose 
on  the  Ulster  leader's  entry.  When  you  scruti- 
nised them  individually,  you  perceived  an  Eng- 
lish audience  or  a  Scotch  one.  One  thing  it 
had  not  the  appearance  of — an  Irish  audience. 

William  of  Orange  looked  down.  William 
of  Orange  on  a  white  charger  stared  indomita- 
bly from  his  vantage-point  over  the  battlefield 
of  the  Boyne.  In  other  guises  he  looked  at  you 
from  the  Orangemen's  banners.  He  was  green, 
he  was  framed  in  scarlet,  he  was  pointing,  he 

225 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

was  glancing  proudly;  he  was  always  proud, 
majestic — victorious. 

They  took  their  seats  upon  the  platform  — 
Sir  James  a  little  in  front  beside  the  Chairman, 
the  speakers  and  the  candidates  flanking  him. 
Behind,  ladies  sat,  ladies  whose  faces  betrayed 
the  excitement  of  an  election  meeting.  That 
meeting  began  not  with  a  speech,  but  with  the 
singing  of  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow" — 
an  incomplete  version  of  this  popular  refrain, 
but  enough  to  do  justice  to  the  occasion.  The 
Chairman  then  suggested  that  the  Ulster 
hymn,  "O  God  Our  Help  in  Ages  Past,"  should 
be  sung.  It  was  sung,  and  the  iron  ring  in  its 
lusty  rendering  seemed  to  carry  no  memories 
across  a  gulf  of  seven  years. 

Sir  James  Craig  rose.  Outside,  said  he, 
there  would  be  an  overflow  meeting;  and  he 
bade  young  Captain  Mulholland — Cambridge 
University  cricketer  and  candidate  for  the 
Holywood  division — go  keep  it  quiet.  Young 
Captain  Mulholland  clicked  his  heels,  saluted, 
and  turned  about. 

If  Sir  James  had  a  text,  it  was  this:  "You 

226 


BELFAST 

have  done  me  the  honour  to  elect  me  as  your 
leader,  and" — raising  his  voice — "/  mean  to 
lead." 

That  was  the  dominant  note. 

He  also  said  this : 

"The  British  Government  will  let  us  down 
to-morrow  if  they  can  get  the  smallest  benefit 
out  of  it." 

That  was  Ulster's  point  of  contact  with  the 
South. 

He  next  went  on  to  describe  the  circum- 
stances antecedent  to  his  meeting  with  Eamon 
de  Valera,  which  had  taken  place  two  days  be- 
fore. For  this  moment  alone  the  speech  had 
been  curiously  awaited.  After  the  manner  of 
political  leaders,  he  proceeded  to  say  a  great 
deal  on  the  subject  of  this  event — and  to  tell 
nothing. 

Lord  Fitzalan  had  just  come  to  Dublin. 
And  on  this  event  the  Ulster  leader  vouchsafed 
two  or  three  not  insignificant  sentences : 

"The  status  of  the  new  Lord  Lieutenant  is  com- 
pletely changed.    He  will  keep  outside  politics.    It  will 
be  more  on  a  par  with  that  of  Lieutenant-Governor  of 
227 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

a  Crown  Colony.    He  will  simply  be  the  King's  repre- 
sentative." 

But  what  was  said  after  Sir  James  Craig  had 
left  the  meeting  was  of  greater  significance 
than  anything  that  fell  from  his  own  lips. 

There  was  an  elderly  white-bearded  candi- 
date, Mr.  McBride.  His  mode  of  address  is 
not  uncharacteristic  of  Belfast: 

"We  want  no  more  meetings  with  de  Valera,  and 
we'll  have  none.  If  I  know  the  people  of  Ulster,  they 
will  never  consent  to  come  in  contact  with  men  like  de 
Valera." 

Tom  Lavery,  a  Labour  candidate,  got  up. 

"I'm  Tom,"  he  said,  "of  County  Down,  not 
Dan  of  Ballykinlar."  That  provoked  laughter. 

There  was  none  when  he  said,  "We  cannot 
go  further  at  present  with  the  assassins  and 
murderers  of  the  loyal  people  of  Ireland." 

It  was  a  wet  night  in  East  Belfast.  And 
under  the  rain  a  great  industrial  city  is  a  dreary 
place.  Everybody  was  glad  to  squeeze  into  the 
Orange  Hall,  where  two  of  the  candidates 
were  going  to  address  the  electors. 

228 


BELFAST 

Captain  Herbert  Dixon,  M.P.,  spoke  first. 
He  is  an  alert,  youngish  man,  with  a  well- 
brushed  business  type  of  mind.  Sir  Dawson 
Bates,  secretary  of  the  Irish  Unionist  Alliance, 
followed  —  a  downright  hard-headed  zealot, 
with  a  clear-cut  horizon  and  no  sentiment  to 
spare. 

I  sat  in  a  corner,  but  it  was  near  the  plat- 
form, but  while  the  two  Northerners  spoke,  my 
mind  was  occupied  with  —  Barry  Egan  and 
Liamon  de  Roiste.  An  "incisiveness"  of  out- 
look might  join  Egan  with  Dixon;  they  would 
watch  each  other,  they  would  fence.  If  it  came 
to  business,  Dixon's  mind  might  win  the  day; 
if  to  political  negotiation,  he  would  barely  hold 
his  own;  if  to  "intellect"  —  on  the  whole, 
Egan. 

Bates  and  de  Roiste  are  extremes,  totally  at 
variance.  Sir  Dawson  has  no  words  to  spare 
— no  "moments  outside  business."  He  speaks 
and  looks  and  thinks  and  is — Belfast.  In  de 
Roiste  there  are  reserves — of  irony,  intelli- 
gence, fertility.  De  Roiste  is  an  unsounded 
quantity. 

229 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Nor  can  the  mind  at  once  adjust  itself  to 
Ulster. 

"We  don't  want  a  United  Ireland,  we  want 
a  United  Kingdom." 

To  one  from  the  South  that  was — frankly 
— a  bombshell.  Perhaps  it  ought  not  to  have 
been.  But  it  was. 

And  the  phrase  was  applauded;  it  was 
roared  at. 

I  noted  other  points  in  the  speeches  which 
provoked  clappings  and  "Hear,  hear !" 

"Some  people  hope  that  Ulster  is  going  to 
make  a  mess  of  things.  Failure  means  handing 
our  bodies  and  souls  over  to  Sinn  Fein  and  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church" 

"We've  had  enough  Dublin  in  the  past.  If 
we  can  crush  Sinn  Fein  at  the  forthcoming 
elections,  there's  a  bright  future  for  Ulster." 

"If  murder,  outrage,  and  the  killing  of 
Protestants " 

The  speaker  did  not  reach  the  end  of  this 
sentence;  he  quoted  instead  from  a  despatch 
to  the  Morning  Post: 

230 


BELFAST 

"There  is  going  on  to-day  a  St.  Bartholo- 
mew of  Protestants  in  the  County  of  Cork. 
These  enemies  of  'reformed*  religion'  are 
being  slaughtered." 

A  lady  spoke.  She  advocated  kitchen-meet- 
ings of  ten  or  twelve  women.  "Get  together/' 
she  advised,  "and  talk  over  things.  You  know 
what  is  wanted  in  Belfast.  A  large  number  of 
our  school^houses  are  not  fit  to  house  pigs 
in.  It's  no  fault  of  ours  that  our  children  are 
taught  sedition." 

An  ex-soldier  spoke: 

"Ex-soldiers,  will  you  get  fair  treatment 
from  the  party  that  said  you  were  traitors  to 
your  country?  ...  If  you  go  to  villages  in 
the  South  and  West,  you  find  miserable  hovels 
and  among  them  magnificent  chapels  —  the 
homes  of  the  priests,  but  paid  for  by  the  peo- 
pie." 

The  meeting  closed  on  the  chairman's  note : 

"We're  not  tired  of  the  good  old  Union 

231 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Jack.     Let's  keep  that  flag  flying  over  the 
North  of  Ireland!" 


"Free-man !  Free  man !  Early  sixth !  Early 
sixth!" 

The  newsboys  shouted,  the  trams  clanked, 
the  bells  clanged.  Was  there  ever  such  a  place 
for  trams?  Crowds  ambulating  along  High 
Street,  shopping  crowds  and  business  crowds 
colliding  all  day  long  at  the  junction  of  Royal 
Avenue  and  Donegal  Place — the  pivot  of  Bel- 
fast. 

And  at  night — what  a  crush  at  the  junc- 
tion! "Antrim  Road — Shankhill  Road — Falls 
Road — Belmont."  On  the  stroke  of  ten-thirty 
— silence.  .  .  . 

I  took  a  tram  to  the  Falls  Road  terminus. 
Row  upon  row  of  newish  brick  tenement- 
houses,  of  squalid  shops,  picture  palaces  innu- 
merable, youths  playing  football  in  waste 
spaces,  and  near  the  end  of  the  long  road  a 
small,  quiet  park  overlooked  by  Squire's  Moun- 
tain. A  feature  of  tbe  journey  was  the  names 
above  the  shops  —  Murphy,  Ryan,  Connor, 

232 


BELFAST 

Mahoney,  Keogh,  Molloy.  And  they,  in  turn, 
accounted  for  inscriptions  on  blank  walls  such 
as:  "Up  Dublin!  Your  hour  is  come!  Be- 
ware !  Shoot  on  sight !  Up  the  rebels !" 

If  Belfast's  characteristic  sound  is  the 
clangour  of  the  tramcar  bells,  her  characteris- 
tic hour  is  5.30  p.m.  Then  the  shipyard  and 
factory  sirens  hoot  across  the  city.  The  ship- 
yard workers  crowd  out  of  the  docks  until 
Waring  Street  and  High  Street  are  blocked 
with  them.  A  similar  scene  may  be  witnessed 
near  the  gates  of  the  West  India  Docks,  Lon- 
don— crowds  of  brawny  men  with  grimy  faces 
in  caps  and  blue  overalls  and  shirts  without 
collars,  carrying  small  wicker  baskets.  In  Bel- 
fast you  have  the  spectacle  of  special  trams 
labelled  "Workers  only,"  crowded  from  roof 
to  floor  and  passing  in  procession  at  this  hour 
down  High  Street. 

Enter  the  docks.  And  what  a  contrast  when 
you  think  of  the  Belfast  of  1913!  True,  the 
riveting  hammers  still  beat  out  their  lively 
tune,  and  at  Harland  &  Wolff's  you  find  the 
skeleton  of  a  liner  in  the  hands  of  a  small  army. 

233 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

But  opposite  is  the  limbless  trunk  of  a  half- 
built  vessel  which  has  long  been  lying  on  the 
stocks.  That,  indeed,  is  the  piano  key  of  a 
great  port  which  has  more  shipping  than 
freight,  which  has  not  the  money  to  complete 
what  it  has  begun. 

A  submarine  re-fitting  lies  along  Donegal 
Quay ;  just  below  the  Fleetwood  berth  a  Scan- 
dinavian cargo-boat  is  newly  in  with  timber. 
Walking  the  length  of  an  endless  row  of  ware- 
houses and  sheds,  you  find  half  a  dozen  men 
shovelling  a  few  hundred-weight  of  condemned 
grain  into  sacks.  You  see  ships  rusted,  ships 
apparently  forgotten,  ships  to  be  sold,  ships 
without  a  buyer,  ships  that  it  does  not  pay  to 
repair.  You  see — stagnancy. 

All  Belfast  was  talking  of  the  Craig-de  Va- 
lera  meeting,  girding  itself  with  an  illusive 
expectancy,  girding  sometimes  at  its  own 
leader,  sometimes  at  the  other  leader,  tending 
to  lose  sight  of  the  major  question  in  the  mo- 
mentary issue.  The  first  thing  I  asked  the 

234 


BELFAST 

Finance  Minister-Designate  when  he  received 
me,  was: 

"Is  there  any  prospect  of  Ulster  accepting 
or  devising  such  guarantees  or  safeguards  as 
may  bring  her  into  a  Dublin  Parliament?" 
Mr.  Pollock's  energetic  answer  was : 
"Why  should  we  go  to  Dublin  ?    Why  should 
we,  law-abiding  citizens,  associate  with  these 
people  who  murder  and  outrage?" 

I  have  seldom  met  a  more  uncompromising 
man.  I  have  seldom  met  a  man  whose  de- 
meanour expressed  such  inflexibility,  such  de- 
termination. With  a  face  strong  to  the  point 
of  fierceness,  with  a  dark  beard  and  forward 
chin,  bushy  eyebrows  and  stern  eyes,  the 
Northern  Government's  first  Finance  Minister 
can  hardly  be  described  as  concessionable. 
"Can  you  suggest  steps  to  peace?" 
"The  present  Act  of  Parliament  is  the  only 
form  of  Home  Rule  acceptable  to  us.  We 
never  asked  for  the  Government  of  Ireland 
Act,  but  in  my  opinion  it's  a  good  Act,  and 
we  mean  loyally  to  work  it,  whatever  happens. 

235 


A   JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

In  doing  that  we're  only  carrying  out  the 
law." 

"Does  it  make  for  the  ultimate  unity  of  the 
country,  in  your  opinion?" 

"Through  the  Council  of  Ireland,  yes.  North 
and  South  would  be  brought  into  constant  con- 
tact, and  the  possibilities  of  ultimate  union  are 
on  the  whole  great." 

Mr.  Pollock  leant  back  in  his  office  chair 
with  his  thumbs  hooked  in  the  sleeve-holes  of 
his  waistcoat,  and  stared  thoughtfully  in  front 
of  him. 

"English  people  are  stupid,"  he  said  bluntly. 
"Why  can't  they  see  that  Ulster  is  the  only  bul- 
wark between  them  and  complete  dissolution 
of  the  British  Empire?  Once  concede  inde- 
pendence to  Ireland,  and  you'll  have  Egypt, 
South  Africa,  India  claiming  it  too." 

"Can  you  visualize  any  concession  in  the 
direction  of  Dominion  Home  Rule  —  fiscal 
autonomy,  for  instance?" 

"On  the  subject  of  concessions  Ulster  is 
adamant.  We  must  have  free  trade  with 
Great  Britain.  We  prefer  to  remain  part  of  a 

236 


BELFAST 

big  country  in  a  free  Customs  Union.  Why, 
the  first  thing  a  Dublin  Parliament  might  do 
would  be  to  impose  duties  on  English  imported 
goods.  England  would  retaliate — you've  only 
got  to  read  history:  how,  for  instance,  Eng- 
land ruined  the  Irish  wool  trade  in  the  seven- 
teenth century.  Well,  we  don't  want  any  of 
these  Customs  barriers.  We  are  practical  peo- 
ple here.  These  Southerners  are  full  of  sen- 
timental ideas  about  nationality." 

"What  about  the  boycott?'* 

''It  does  not  hit  Ulster  very  hard.  Our  busi- 
ness with  the  South  is  only  a  distributing  trade, 
circulating  English  imported  goods.  Ulster- 
manufactured  tobacco  goes  to  England,  very 
little  to  the  South,  linen  mostly  to  the  United 
States,  cattle  to  England." 

"Feeling  down  South  is,  as  you  know,  in- 
tense on  the  subject  of  the  Catholic  workers 
in  the  shipyards." 

"Yes,  but  the  religious  question  here  is  really 
more  apparent  than  real.  The  trouble  in  the 

shipyards  arose  from  the  attitude  of  the  Sinn 
237 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Fein  element  imported  from  the  South  during 
the  war,  when  labour  was  short.  When  the 
yiolence  campaign  began  they  took  up  an  ag- 
gressive attitude  towards  their  fellow-work- 
men. They  also  stood  in  the  way  of  the 
ex-soldiers  returned  to  their  old  jobs.  The 
murder  of  District-Inspector  Swanzy  at  Lis- 
burn  actually  lit  the  match.  Before  the  I.R.A. 
campaign  began  Catholics  and  Protestants 
were  working  happily  together,  as  they  are 
now  in  other  trades.  Many  thousand  Catho- 
lics are  still  employed  by  Unionist  firms,  Cath- 
olics are  still  employed  in  the  dockyards.  The 
Nationalists,  you  must  remember,  have  chased 
Protestants  out  of  the  Derry  shipyards.  But 
here  the  hostility  is  to  Sinn  Fein  rather  than 
to  Catholics  as  such." 

"Does  religion  play  any  part  in  education 
here?" 

"The  Roman  Catholic  Church  offers  no  pub- 
lic education.    We  want  popular  education." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  unemployment  in 
Belfast,  isn't  there?'1 

238 


BELFAST 

"There  is.*  The  causes  are : 

"(1)  The  difficulty  of  obtaining  raw  mate- 
rials. Before  the  war  seventy-five  per  cent,  of 
our  flax  of  the  coarser  sort  was  imported  from 
Russia,  the  finer  sorts  from  Holland  and 
Belgium.  Irish-grown  flax  made  up  the  re- 
mainder. Canada  now  supplies  some.  Conse- 
quently the  cost  has  gone  up  and  the  demand 
has  diminished. 

"(2)  Ship-owners  are  cancelling  orders. 
Shipbuilders  are  delaying  work,  and  proposing 
to  reduce  wages  by  six  shillings  a  week.  Ships 
lie  half -finished  because  it  doesn't  pay  to  build 
them.  As  a  result  men  are  thrown  out  of  em- 
ployment." 

"On  the  whole,  you  see  very  little  hope  of  a 
settlement  through  the  'Partition  Act'  ?" 

"  'Partition'  is  a  political  catch-phrase.  The 
fact  is  we  cannot  rely  upon  safeguards  offered 
by  rebels  and  murderers."  The  words  that 
followed  were  almost  identical  with  those  used 

*  Ministry  of   Labour  statistics   of   unemployed   in    Ireland 
showed:    Belfast,  28,434;  Dublin,  16,291;  Cork,  10,922;  Lim- 
erick, 4,188;  Derry,  4,176;  Waterford,  2,264.    Of  the  total  for 
Ireland,  79,046  are  men,  1,809  women,  2,585  boys,  2,845  girls. 
239 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

by  my  friends  in  Banbridge:  "When  they've 
shown  they  know  how  to  behave  themselves, 
then — perhaps  in  two  or  three  years'  time — 
we'll  talk  it  over  with  them." 

One  morning  I  called  at  a  Roman  Catholic 
college  in  North  Belfast. 

In  a  very  small,  very  bare  room  I  talked 
with  a  youngish,  rather  shy-mannered  priest 
who  introduced  himself  as  the  President. 
From  him  came  an  echo  of  the  South,  only 
with  an  added,  a  keener  note  of  resentment. 

"The  Protestants  here  are  bigots.  We're 
living  in  a  prison.  If  I  walk  down  the  street 
the  children  spit  at  sight  of  me.  Our  letters 
are  censored  and  our  telephone  tapped." 

The  first  question  that  occurred  to  me  was 
as  to  the  schools  and  the  alleged  anti-English 
propaganda  in  the  Roman  Catholic  colleges. 

"There  is  some  anti-English — if  you  like  the 
phrase — education,  because  we  teach  the  his- 
tory of  Ireland,"  was  the  reply.  "For  instance, 
I  take  every  opportunity  of  knocking  down 
your  English  'heroes,'  men  like  Clive  and  Nel- 

240 


BELFAST 

son,  and  the  story  that  Burke  was  cruel  to 
Warren  Hastings!  For  the  rest,  the  Protes- 
tants must  build  schools  for  themselves  if  they 
don't  want  their  children  to  be  'contaminated/ 
At  any  rate,  their  children  ought  to  be  put  to 
school  in  their  own  parish  or  district  where 
they  are  known,  instead  of  being  sent,  as  they 
are,  broadcast  about  the  city." 

I  chanced  to  mention  the  burnt  houses  at 
Lisburn. 

"They  were  the  homes  of  friends  of  mine, 
prosperous  farmers,"  the  priest  said.  "I  often 
visited  there.  They  lived  their  own  life  and 
kept  to  themselves — had  to,  indeed.  So  when 
the  Roman  Catholic  shipyard  workers  were 
turned  out  of  the  docks  the  Protestants  came 
and  burnt  them  out.  Oh!  it's  this  so-called 
'religion,'  not  'loyalty  to  the  Empire,'  that's 
at  the  back  of  it  all." 

"How  far  do  you  think  the  boycott  is  affect- 
ing Belfast?" 

"To  this  extent:  two-thirds  of  the  distribut- 
ing trade  in  Ireland  was  done  by  Belfast,  and 
Belfast  merchants  travelled  all  over  the  coun- 

241 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

try.  Only  the  remaining  one-third  was  han- 
dled by  the  South.  Where  ten  thousand 
pounds  a  week  was  earned  by  the  wholesale 
houses  before,  a  hundred  pounds  is  turned  over 
now." 

"What's  to  be  the  end  of  it  all?" 

"A  Republic  is  the  only  solution.  We  can't 
trust  the  British  Government.  They've  played 
us  false  over  and  over  again.  You  see,  we  are 
idealists — in  Ulster  they  are  'practical  men/  " 

I  stopped  at  the  Nationalist  Club  on  my  way 
to  see  a  "high  Government  official."  Here  Mr. 
Joe  Devlin,  surrounded  by  friends,  was  dis- 
cussing his  Election  Address,  whilst  imbibing 
a  whisky-and-soda. 

He  told  two  stories  (one  of  which  I  cannot 
remember)  and  launched  into  a  diatribe  against 
the  Government : 

"There  was  a  man  charged  with  blasphemy 
— cursing  the  Pope.  He  stoutly  denied  the 
charge  in  the  witness-box.  Then  his  mother 
was  called  to  give  evidence. 

"  'And  did  he  call  the  Pope  a  damned  old 
swindler,  now?' 

242 


BELFAST 

"  'Ach,  sure,  and  he  did  not.  Mike  never 
was  a  religious  man.  He  couldn't  have  said 
it!' 

"Ulster  only  thinks  of  Ulster,"  was  the  bur- 
den of  the  Nationalist  dreadnought's  discourse 
— or  harangue. 

"But  the  boycott  is  a  bad  business  for  Bel- 
fast. As  to  the  Government,  I'm  fed  up  with 
them.  They've  done  nothing  but  turn,  twist, 
shilly-shally.  A  settlement  could  probably  be 
arrived  at  on  Dominion  Home  Rule  lines,  but 
Lloyd  George  ought  to  come  out  straight  with 
what  he's  prepared  to  offer  in  the  House  of 
Commons." 

And  with  that  the  redoubtable  "Joe"  shut 
up,  deftly  turning  the  conversation  to  such 
subjects  as  the  late  Tom  Kettle  and  the  wick- 
edness of  the  coal  strike  and  the  awkwardness 
of  the  boat-sailings. 

The  "high  official,"  when  I  ran  him  to  earth, 
proved  to  be  a  model  of  his  kind.  That  is 
to  say,  he  talked  a  great  deal  and  told  very 
little." 

"But,"  said  he,  "you  can  take  it  from  one 

243 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

who  is  'inside  things' — the  war  is  nearly  over. 
The  I.R.A.  are  getting  sick  of  it." 

Four  months  passed  before  his  prophecy  was 
fulfilled.  .  .  . 

I  inquired  whether — as  events  appeared  to 
indicate  at  the  time — Republican  activities 
were  not  trending  North  and  East.  Two  con- 
stables had  been  shot  dead  in  Donegal  Place 
during  the  previous  week,  while  on  the  pre- 
vious day  a  police-inspector  had  been  danger- 
ously wounded  in  the  Falls  Road  district. 

"The  Police-Inspectorship  of  Falls  Road  is, 
I  should  say,  the  most  dangerous  position  in 
the  whole  of  Ireland.  These  'gunmen'  do  not 
wear  uniform,  and  in  a  great  city  like  Belfast 
outrages  are  only  possible  because  of  the  free- 
dom citizens  enjoy." 

I  questioned  him  as  to  the  effect  of  the  boy- 
cott. 

"The  boycott,  you  must  remember,  cannot 
touch  the  three  main  industries  of  Ulster — 
linen,  not  one  per  cent,  of  which  goes  to  the 

South,  shipbuilding,  and  agriculture.    The  big 
244 


BELFAST 

manufacturing  firms  are,  in  my  opinion,  not 
very  much  affected;  the  small  manufacturers 
and  distributors  are." 

"Has  Belfast  any  retaliatory  weapon — an 
embargo,  for  instance,  on  the  export  of  South- 
country  cattle  or  perishable  goods?" 

"No.  But  one  thing  not  generally  realised 
is  that  more  potatoes  are  grown  in  Down 
and  Antrim  than  in  any  other  counties  in  Ire- 
land." 

"On  what  terms,  if  any,  do  you  think  Ulster 
would  enter  a  Dublin  Parliament?" 

"There  would  have  to  be  at  least  a  one- 
fourth  representation.  Compare  the  distribu- 
tion of  population — and  of  wealth.  Outside 
Ulster  you  have  327,000  Protestants  living  in 
a  population  of  2,812,000  Roman  Catholics; 
in  the  Six  Counties  430,000  Roman  Catholics 
living  amid  820,000  Protestants.  Roughly,  you 
have  three  Catholics  to  one  Protestant  if  you 
take  the  whole  of  Ireland." 

"Can  you  suggest  no  adequate  safeguards, 
then?" 

245 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

"I  would  not  say  that.  But  to  understand 
the  Irish  question  as  a  whole  you  have  to  real- 
ise what  the  prospect  of  living  under  the  rule 
of  a  man  like  de  Valera  means  to  these  peo- 
ple. De  Valera  has  defined  'safeguards'  as  'the 
safeguards  of  common  sense.'  He  has  also 
said  (at  Killaloe,  July  5th,  1919):  'If  the 
Unionists  do  not  come  in  on  our  side  they  will 
have  to  go  under.'  And  at  Ballaghadaveen  a 
fortnight  later :  'Ulster  must  be  coerced  if  she 
stands  in  the  way.'  These  are  the  man's  real 
sentiments." 

"Whatever  you  do,  though,"  my  authority 
urged  with  much  earnestness,  "don't  do  or  say 
anything  which  will  embitter  the  question  or 
make  things  worse  than  they  are." 

At  Queen's  University  is  another  more  or 
less  aloof  observer  of  events  —  Professor 
Henry,  author  of  "The  Evolution  of  Sinn 
Fein." 

His  views  chiefly  concerned  the  future. 

"The  Southern  Parliament  will  not  func- 
tion. In  the  long  run,  the  Northern  Parlia- 
ment will  fail  because : 

246 


BELFAST 

"(1)  The  area  delimited  under  the  Act  is 
too  small.  One  and  a  quarter  millions  of  peo- 
ple cannot  form  practically  a  separate  State 
with  any  prospect  of  success. 

"(2)  The  expense  of  administration  will 
prove  ruinous. 

"(3)  There  is  a  total  ignorance  of  practical 
administration  in  the  new  Government. 

"(4)  There  is  an  absolute  lack  of  agreement 
on  a  definite  domestic  policy. 

"In  Education,  for  instance,  there  are  no 
signs  of  a  definite  policy.  Labour  is  dissatis- 
fied, not  knowing  where  it  stands.  Above  all, 
this  Northern  Government  is  organisedly  and 
avowedly  anti-Catholic. 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  a  lasting  set- 
tlement through  the  Partition  Act,"  he  contin- 
ued. "Under  it,  the  British  Government  keeps 
everything  that  matters  for  the  commercial 
and  industrial  prosperity  of  Ireland.  The 
number  of  our  members  at  Westminster  is  re- 
duced. No  common  trade  arrangements  are 
possible  while  you  have  one  form  of  Govern- 
ment in  the  North  and  another  in  the  South. 

247 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

On  the  other  hand,  we  have  to  pay  eighteen 
millions  a  year  to  the  English  Exchequer,  and 
England  generously  returns  a  small  propor- 
tion of  it !  The  root  of  the  matter  is  that  it  is 
not  to  the  interest  of  England  to  have  us  as  a 
commercial  rival." 

"How  far  do  you  consider  the  boycott  affects 
Belfast?" 

"The  distributing  trade  is  almost  smashed. 
That  is  the  first-fruit  of  Partition." 

"Cannot  Belfast  start  a  counter-boycott?" 

"Doubtful.  The  only  articles  Ulster  wants 
from  the  South  are  Limerick  bacon  and  stout." 

"You  see  no  likelihood  of  an  early  and  per- 
manent settlement?" 

"The  further  the  Northern  Administration 
commits  itself  the  worse  the  eventual  smash- 
up  will  be.  The  really  important  point  is  which 
side  breaks  down  first — that  will  make  a  dif- 
ference to  the  form  the  ultimate  settlement 
takes.  At  the  same  time,  I  do  not  exclude  the 
possibility  of  Ulster  entering  a  Dublin  Parlia- 
ment when  her  incapacity  for  separate  govern- 

248 


BELFAST 

ment  is  proved,  and  a  disunited  Ireland  is  seen 
to  be  politically  impracticable." 

Saturday  afternoons  among  the  Belfast 
workers  are  as  often  given  up  to  political 
demonstrations  as  to  games.  Only  the  middle 
and  upper  middle  classes  clothe  themselves  in 
white  and  board  .the  trams  that  take  them  to 
the  cricket-grounds  and  tennis-courts. 

And  at  3  p.m.  on  the  afternoon  of  May  7th, 
great  numbers  of  working  men  might  have 
been  seen  congregating  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Carlisle  Circus.  It  was  the  occasion  of  the 
first  Elections  for  the  Northern  Parliament. 
At  the  corner  of  the  side  -  street  in  which 
the  procession  was  forming  up,  numbers  of 
women,  girls,  and  children  stood.  Every  few 
minutes  a  brass  or  a  drum-and-fife  band 
marched  up,  and  by  degrees  three  large  ban- 
ners were  unfurled  on  which  were  emblazoned 
the  names  of  the  candidates  for  North  Belfast, 
together  with  such  exhortations  as : 

"Vote  for  Union,  Home  and  Empire!    Ex- 

249 


A    JOURNEY   IN    IRELAND 

soldiers,  don't  betray  your  comrades  who  shed 
their  blood!" 

When  the  procession  set  off  along  Antrim 
Road,  it  was  to  the  strains  of  a  rousing  march 
and  to  facetious  en  joinders  down  a  column 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length  to  "Keep 
step — left,  right,  left,  right!"  and  "March  by 
the  left  there !"  These  men  had  served  in  the 
British  Army,  most  of  them  in  the  Great  War 
— that  was  evident. 

Crowds,  or  rather  clouds,  of  women,  chil- 
dren, and  youths  accompanied  the  march, 
which  encompassed  the  whole  electoral  dis- 
trict. Through  innumerable  side-streets  of 
red-brick  tenement-houses  exactly  and  meticu- 
lously alike,  with  glimpses  of  washing  and 
washing  apparatus  up  alley-ways,  along  the 
Shankill  Road,  scene  of  so  many  fierce  encoun- 
ters, past  gasworks,  past  stretches  of  blank 
brick  wall,  and  warehouses  and  factories — so 
back  to  Clif ten  Street  and  Petej's  Hill.  There 
were  no  untoward  incidents. 

"Up  Dublin!"  chalked  in  yellow  on  a  wall 
roused  no  comment.  The  rain,  which  began  to 
250 


BELFAST 

fall  steadily,  could  damp  neither  bands  nor  en- 
thusiasm. 

At  the  end  of  the  march  speeches  were  made 
and  questions  asked. 

"Will  the  British  public  stand  by  Ulster, 
whose  sons  stood  by  them,  or  will  they  support 
Sinn  Fein  Ireland,  which  stabbed  Britain  in 
the  back  and  has  such  a  ghastly  record  of  dis- 
loyalty and  crime?" 

Torrential  cheering  was  the  answer,  and 
cries  of  "She'll  stand  by  us!" 

Yet  the  sombre  realities  of  Ireland,  1921, 
could  not  be  ignored  even  in  Belfast.  The 
Black  and  Tan  lorries  and  tenders  and  the 
vansful  of  soldiers  careered  about  the  streets 
as  they  had  done  further  South — only  one  had 
grown  so  accustomed  to  them  that  one  hardly 
noticed  them. 

It  was  in  Belfast  that  I  met  Mr.  X.  of  Cork, 
Charleville  Junction,  and  Limerick — for  the 
last  time.  He  came  out  of  the  big  restaurant 
in  Donegal  Place  as  I  entered  it.  The  same 
grey  tweed  suit,  flash  tie-pin,  and  the  same 
defiant  sneer  at  the  world. 

251 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

After  10.30  p.m.  silence  fell  upon  Royal 
Avenue.  It  was  Curfew-hour.  The  broad 
street  lay  empty. 

It  was  unusual  to  hear  a  motor-car  rush  past, 
but  on  my  last  night  in  Belfast  this  happened. 

"Crack — crack — crack — crack !" 

We  ran  to  the  window  overlooking  Belfast's 
principal  thoroughfare.  Fifty  yards  away  the 
car  drew  up  with  a  grating  of  brakes  and  wild 
jazzing  of  wheels.  The  driver  jumped  out — 
ran  to  his  back  tyre.  Three  men  tumbled  out, 
bewildered  and  rather  frightened.  The  sound 
of  a  rifle-bolt  being  worked  and  cartridges 
ejected  broke  the  brief  interval  of  silence.  A 
military  patrol,  three  men  and  a  corporal  in 
steel  helmets,  came  up  at  the  double. 

A  long  altercation  followed.  Names,  num- 
bers and  addresses  were  taken.  At  length  the 
party  were  allowed  to  proceed,  and  silence  fell 
upon  Royal  Avenue  once  more. 

It  was  the  10th  May.  .  .  . 

Again  the  Lough  lay  glooming  beneath  ?, 

252 


BELFAST 

rainy  sky  above  the  Antrim  hills.  But  as  the 
boat  edged  slowly  away  from  Donegal  Quay, 
the  beams  of  the  setting  sun  broke  between 
Cave  Hill  and  the  cloud  above  it,  and  lit  up  the 
spires,  the  factory  chimneys,  the  confused 
roof-tops  of  Belfast.  Crowds  stood  on  the 
quay — a  party  of  young  men  was  leaving  for 
London,  if  not  beyond.  There  were  men, 
women,  and  children  in  the  crowd — chiefly 
women.  There  were  facetious  calls,  cries, 
waving  of  handkerchiefs  and  raising  of  hand- 
kerchiefs to  eyes  as  the  boat  slipped  farther 
and  farther  out  into  the  main  stream.  And 
there  was  loud  singing  as  between  those  on 
the  quay  and  those  on  the  boat  and  back 
again.  .  .  . 

The  sunset  kindled  trams  and  foot-passen- 
gers on  the  gradually  receding  Queen's  Bridge. 
Two  four-oared  skiffs  raced  past,  the  cox- 
swains audibly  counting  the  number  of  strokes 
to  the  minute.  We  glided  by  Harland  & 
Wolff's,  we  were  soon  passing  the  submarine 
and  the  coloured  funnels  of  the  idle  steamers 
in  the  docks. 

253 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

The  shouts  and  the  singing  grew  fainter. 
Presently  they  came  as  a  f ar-off  fitful  cadence 
across  the  water.  The  handkerchiefs  contin- 
ued to  wave.  . 


APPENDIX 

(Text  of  the  Typewritten  Document  referred 
to  on  pages  38  and  65. ) 

THESE  facts  must  be  repeated:  as  to  "who 
began  it." 

In  1917,  no  police  killed  in  Ireland.  But 
Irish  houses  raided,  250  men  and  women  ar- 
rested; 24  political  leaders  hauled  out  of  their 
country  without  trial;  meetings  suppressed; 
men,  women  and  children  beaten;  newspapers 
suppressed;  savage  sentences  for  "seditious" 
speeches,  etc.;  2  civilians  murdered;  5  died  in 
prison  from  ill-treatment.  Not  one  of  the 
Government  criminals  brought  to  justice. 

In  1918,  no  police  killed  in  Ireland.  But  260 
private  houses  raided  by  night;  1,100  Irish 
men  and  women  arrested  for  their  Irish  poli- 
tics; meetings  suppressed;  men,  women  and 
children  wounded;  many  of  the  1,100  political 
prisoners  maltreated  in  prison,  one  died  of  the 

255 


A    JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

maltreatment;  5  civilians  murdered  by  mili- 
tary; fairs  and  markets  suppressed.  No  pun- 
ishment or  even  reproach  for  the  murderers. 

The  Irish  in  1917-18  showed  what  a  distin- 
guished foreign  visitor  called  "an  almost  crim- 
inal patience."  They  devoted  themselves  to 
preparing — by  English  form  of  law  under 
English  constitution — for  the  election  of  De- 
cember, 1918,  to  show  the  English  and  the 
world,  peacefully  and  "constitutionally,"  what 
they  asked.  They  had  their  reward  in  worse 
persecution. 

Therefore,  in  1919,  the  first  policeman  as 
persecutor  and  spy  was  shot;  and  throughout 
1919,  16,  most  of  them  in  conflict  with  men  less 
well  armed  than  they. 

In  1919,  14,000  houses  were  raided  at  night 
by  armed  soldiers  and  police ;  335  meetings  sup- 
pressed. The  elected  government  and  every 
national  organisation  declared  illegal;  476 
armed  attacks  on  orderly  gatherings ;  260  men, 
women  and  children  wounded ;  959  arrests  for 
politics;  20  more  leaders  deported;  35  papers 
suppressed ;  8  civilians  murdered. 

256 


APPENDIX 

In  1920,  more  arrests,  deportations,  raid- 
ings,  lootings  and  wrecking  of  houses.  Sack- 
ing of  towns  and  murders  of  civilians  more  fre- 
quent; mills,  factories,  creameries  wrecked  in 
an  attempt  to  starve  the  people  into  submission 
to  English  rule  in  practice  against  English 
theory. 

These  were  the  answers  to  the  municipal 
elections  of  1920  repeating  the  "constitutional 
demand  of  the  people  for  self-determination." 

In  June,  1920,  at  the  rural  elections,  83  per 
cent,  of  the  people  declared  for  Independence. 
Therefore  in  the  following  3  months  74  towns 
were  sacked  and  burned,  and  43  innocent  men 
murdered  by  police  and  military.  Flogging  of 
men  and  boys,  and  torturing  prisoners,  and 
attacks  on  women  and  children  became  a  regu- 
lar part  of  England's  military  terrorism  in 
Ireland. 

It  is  absurd,  therefore,  to  say  that  murders 
of  police  caused  the  policy  of  which  they  were 
the  result.  It  was  Gessler  "began  it,"  not  Tell. 
(And  if  there  have  been  100  armed  police 
killed  there  have  been  hundreds  of  unarmed 
257 


A   JOURNEY    IN    IRELAND 

Irish  killed.)  The  plan  of  the  so-called  Gov- 
ernment is  not  to  suppress  murder  and  restore 
law  and  order,  but  to  suppress  a  people,  and  to 
restore  over  them  a  lawless  domination  whose 
infamies  they  hate  and  whose  spirit  they 
despise. 


AFTER-NOTE 

ALMOST  simultaneously  with  the  conclusion 
of  this  book,  a  truce  was  happily  proclaimed 
in  Ireland. 

This,  and  the  protracted  negotiations  which 
followed,  had  the  effect  of  making  it  inadvis- 
able (in  the  public  interest)  to  publish  an 
account,  however  non-partisan,  of  a  journey 
through  the  country  in  its  stormiest  period. 

That  phase,  and  the  phase  succeeding  it, 
have  now  definitely  passed.  The  book  is  there- 
fore Of  necessity  retrospective  instead  of  con- 
temporaneous, as  was  at  first  intended,  but  for 
this  very  reason  it  may  have  an  additional  in- 
terest for  the  reader.  How  far  have  the 
prophecies  and  the  prognostications,  the  diag- 
noses, the  recommendations,  the  hopes  and 
fears  expressed  in  it  stood  the  test  of  nine 
months'  negotiation? 

And  isn't  any  conceivable  settlement  likely 

259 


A   JOURNEY   IN   IRELAND 

to  prove  less  disastrous  to  the  people  of  Ire- 
land than  a  relapse  into  that  sinister  condition 
of  subterranean  manoeuvre  and  assassination 
now  frankly  called — War? 

W.  E. 


U) 
THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRA 


A     000028304     4 


